


if i tell you i love you

by boycoffin



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Music, Alternate Universe - Nightclub, Cannibalism, Canon-Typical Body Horror, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Villains, Canonical levels of Will/Margot, Dirty Talk, EXTREMELY varied chapter length, Gender Dysphoria, Gender Identity, Knife Play, M/M, Murder, Murder Family, Murderous Dirty Talk, Oral Sex, Queer Themes, Sartorial Destruction, Sequel Potential, Slow Burn, Smut, Sugar Daddy Hannibal, Therapy, Trans Margot Verger, Trans Will Graham, Transitioning, Will Graham Finds Out, ao3's persistent html formatting errors corrected as of 11/8, canon-typical manipulation, chosen family, musical numbers, secondary character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-05
Updated: 2017-11-05
Packaged: 2019-01-30 01:31:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 63,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12643407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boycoffin/pseuds/boycoffin
Summary: The Beau Morgue is a nightclub with a rich and tragic history, its dozens of deaths memorialized by a wall of old photos, a certain air of morbid delight about the place, and, every autumn, the Anniversary of the Fire.Curse Night.But this year—as a new voice is raised over the sound of the swing band—a man ends up murdered, and all hell breaks loose.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> to sunny, my patron, who got me writing again during a difficult time when i needed it most. and to the memory of what has come before; i decide what endures.  
> —  
> [a very time-generous reader](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sanity_is_hard_to_keep/pseuds/Sanity_is_hard_to_keep) has compiled the soundtrack to this fic on spotify, so [go check it out!](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6teoOd3fDJhqBHFYKd3SOo?si=bJB-N4ucR8-pVhQGoqSw7A)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If he bombed, everyone would have a good laugh and for the next few weeks it'd be part of the stage banter, _hey, let's get our good ol' piano player to sing us a tune, shall we?_ , and after awhile it would be forgotten.
> 
> If he succeeded... well. He didn't know what might happen, then.

During Prohibition it had been a speakeasy called Drago's. Run by a delicate-boned Italian man and his (as she was always described) fascinating wife, the club had become a refuge for those the city rejected: the young women and men and others who'd been chewed up and spat back out again, for their race or their creed, for their manner of dress, for those with whom they chose to share a life or even just an evening. During a raid one night a few weeks after All Saint's Day, the police had 'accidentally' set fire to the place, its patrons and proprietors only managing to escape the blaze by way of the hidden passage in the back wall. Not much of the original beauty of the club survived, save for the embossed copper ceiling, and, naturally, the bones of the two row houses it had once been before they'd knocked through the middle in 1914 and set up the secret bar. 

Drago's languished in ruins until Prohibition ended and the last vestiges of suspicion faded away. Benigno (called Bello) and Jacqueline Drago had opened a tailor shop, and in the intervening thirteen years had made something of a name for themselves among the disenfranchised. They would make you anything you needed, it was said. They would serve anyone, no matter their color, no matter how high or deep their voice. Bello was a dab hand at foundation garments, those that giveth and those that taketh away; Jacque's talents ran to extravagant costumes, sweeping headpieces, intricate embroidery and beading that caught the eye and the light. If you knew the password, they would fit you for a wig, fashioned of real hair given to them by grateful customers in exchange for the chance to lead a different life. 

But the Dragos were getting on in years, too busy with their tailoring and weary in their bones to return to the rollicking speed of running a nightclub, and for reasons known to those who knew them, the Dragos had no children. 

Their first establishment was sold to an industrious young man who thought of restoring it to its former glory, but before he could begin drawing up plans, an automobile crash took his life. His elder sister took charge of the property, and when nearly all the fire damage had been assessed and remedied, a mysterious illness took her. Her twin sons, both skilled carpenters, began to lay beautiful flooring in the main rooms and to build a new bar, dovetailed black walnut and birch with inset lights. On the day of its installation, a storm surged through the building's old wiring, killing them both. The shop owner from across the street, who came when she saw the flash of sparks from the bay window, slipped on a loose nail that had fallen to the floor, cracking her head against the bar, her blood seeping into the birch wood as effectively as any commercial stain as she lay on the floor, her eyes open and glassy in death. 

It was starting to seem as if Drago's was cursed. 

For a time, it sat empty. The Dragos closed up their business and went to California, having pinched pennies for decades to buy an acre of macadamia orchard on which to retire. 

A cousin of the twin carpenters discovered that the old building was still in her family's name. She opened a jewelry shop, and died in a gas leak. 

Her maternal uncle took over the property, then, leasing it to an Irishman who opened a medical practice on the left side and lived on the right. No one died there for nearly eight years, until one of the nurses came in to work with a cleaver in her handbag. There were no survivors. 

Such events unfolded as the deed changed hands, down and down the years until 1989, when it was purchased by a twenty-eight-year-old man and his new wife. 

Jack Crawford stood in the main room, surrounded by the wreckage of years. The last owner had tried to turn the left side back into a bar, but had only got so far before it was discovered that she had a brain tumor. 'It's a wreck,' said Jack. 

Bella picked her way across the floor, over drop-cloths and bits of old hardware. 'I love it,' she said. 'There's so much history here. I'm going to hunt down the records tomorrow, and see if I can find anything else on microfilm at the library.' 

'Oh, and leave all the grunt work to me?' Jack teased her. 'I see how it is.' 

'That's what you get for being a big, strong, strappingly handsome man,' Bella said lightly. 

'At least I'll be using it for something.' 

Jack had turned down an offer to work for the FBI, and it was still weighing on him. Being in the military had been the most rewarding thing in his life, until he was stationed in Italy. Until Bella. Now all he wanted was her, to share her dreams, to do whatever might make her life complete. When she left the Navy, Jack stuck it out until his enlistment contract was up, and they came back to the States together. Completely adrift, no idea what they were going to do. And then Bella had seen the sign in the window of this weird old building, and had asked around in the neighborhood about it. That night when she'd come back to their apartment, it was clear she was hooked. Bella, under all her forthright sensibility, had always had a mystical streak. Laying tarot cards for anyone on base who knew how to ask without it seeming like mockery; carrying talismans in her pocket. 

_Something's drawing me there,_ she'd said. _I can feel it. Like it's already ours._

* * * 

Will Graham pulled on a pair of nitrile gloves, applied his medication to each upper arm, and stood waiting as the alcohol evaporated, allowing the gel to dry. 

Over the past couple years his beard had finally filled out, thank god. Now, instead of scraggly patches that looked more at home on one of his rescue dogs, the hair lay smooth and comforting against his chin and jaw. It didn't get very long, and he only ever clipped it once every couple of weeks. A mask he never wanted to take off. Or, rather, not a mask, but something that had pushed through the disguise he'd worn for so many years, insistent and all-encompassing like wild ivy. In the South, kudzu vines would grow over entire forests, smothering trees from lack of light, leaving it impossible to tell what was truly a hill and what was a sheer drop to the floor of the woods beneath. Now, when people looked at him, they didn't see the undergrowth, the dark, creeping things in the deadfall, and neither did he. 

Will could finally look at his face and see himself in it. 

He stripped off the gloves, turning them inside out and putting them in the bathroom trash can, which had a lid to keep the dogs from nosing in it. Will pulled on his shirt and jacket, gave himself a long look in the mirror, and took the dogs out before he left for work. 

* * * 

The Beau Morgue needed to fix its damn sign. The second E had been flickering for a few months. Alana had said that she kind of liked it that way, that it lent to the off-beat charm of the place. But now, as Will drove past on the way around the building to the employee parking, the coil had completely blown out. He'd come around early before his shift tomorrow, if he knew himself. Get out a ladder from the maintenance garage and go up and tinker with the thing, see if there was anything he could do. Fixing things wasn't what Will did best, but it was something he could manage when people let him. He remembered when he'd fixed the soda nozzle behind the bar and scraped his knuckle on something under the counter back there, and Katz had insisted on doing extensive first aid on it. Will had protested that it was just a scrape and he wasn't goddamn _delicate_ , thank you very much, but Katz made a comment about the ivories getting jealous, and he smiled. 

'Will! How do I sound?' 

Bedelia had stopped him in the hall from the back door, half-dressed; she wore fleece pajama pants on the bottom half, with bare feet, and a glittery bustier on top. Her hair was still damp, as yet unstyled. 

'I'm gonna need more than five words to determine that,' said Will. He indicated her pants with a gesture. 'Nice outfit, by the way.' 

'I felt the counting-sheep print lent a touch of class,' she joked back. 'Here.' She sang a couple of measures of _Is You Is Or Is You Ain't My Baby_? 

Will shook his head. 

'Oh, god. That bad?' 

'I'd say tonight's the last performance until you have to rest it, B. You been taking anything?' 

'A lot of steamy showers and DayQuil.' 

'You tried the tea thing yet?' 

'No. I know honey and lemon is supposed to help, but every time I drink it the honey leaves me sticky and the lemon leaves me gunky. I start to sound like I've incorporated a plunger into my act.' 

Will nodded. Soothing the throat was one thing, maintaining the integrity of the voice was another. 'This sounds counter-intuitive, but go ask Margot for one of her Djarum Blacks.' 

Bedelia gave him a blank look for a second, then realized Will wasn't up to speed. 'Did you not remember? Margot's out of town for surgery, she won't be back until Anniversary.' 

He should have known that. 'Fuck. Okay. I think there's some in her locker.' 

'Combination's 666, right?' Bedelia said with a little smile. She really did sound hoarse when she was talking. 

'That's our girl,' said Will, making his way to the manager's office. 

Alana was on the phone when he got there, so Will leaned against the door frame with his hands in his pockets. After a moment, she pushed the speakerphone button and set the receiver back on the cradle. Tinny classical music issued from the speaker. 

'I'm on hold. What's up?' 

'The second E finally died,' said Will. 'Also Bedelia sounds like she's got a quarry in her larynx.' 

Alana rubbed her temples, elbows against the edge of her desk. 'I know, I know. Life is an endless cycle of suffering, and I'm the ass the Ouroboros has decided to chew out.' 

'You're chipper today.' 

'I thought you'd notice my fantastic mood,' she said. 'So, you know how I figured it was just our regular guy being a dick? Turns out Cintas workers in our region are on strike. That means day three of no bar towels.' 

'I'll run over to restaurant supply and grab a couple dozen again,' said Will. 

'Don't bother, I already called them. _All_ of them. Nobody has bar or any other variety of towels.' 

'Not even for cash?' 

'Not even for cash.' 

'I know there are other services, but...' Will whistled under his breath. 'Starbucks uses Cintas too. Imagine how bad _they_ have it it.' 

'Are you trying to make me feel worse? I don't want to think about hot milk festering in hamper right now, Will. What I want to think about,' Alana went on, warming to her theme, 'is a big, and I mean _really_ big, gin and tonic, and a bad straight-to-Netflix horror movie about hot girls being possessed by demons, and maybe several orgasms. But no. Today is not my day, and we're not even open yet.' 

'I forgot Margot's surgery is next week,' said Will. 'I was at the damn send-off party and I forgot.' 

'To be fair, you had a goodish quantity of goodish whiskey on that occasion.' 

Will dropped the subject. He'd been losing time lately, yes, but not due to overindulgence. He'd started dissociating again, remembering too much until the breaking point where he no longer remembered anything at all. 

'I'll run out to Target and get some kitchen towels,' he said. 'It's not like I start until showtime.' 

'You'll miss warm up,' Alana warned him. 

'Jimmy can cover for me.' 

Alana groaned. 'If I hear one more of his renditions of "Toxic", there might be another death on the premises.' 

Will shrugged. 'Put it on the Wall with the rest of them.' 

He got the house credit card from her and went out into front-of-house to see if there was anything else he should pick up. 

'Target run!' he announced to the room. 'Shout if you're needy!' 

'Ooh, me!' Jimmy said, exiting the kitchen with a plastic rack of clean glasses. 'Since the Towel Fairy has been remiss, we need aprons.' 

'I think there are still Halloween ones on clearance,' said Will. 'Spiderweb or ghosts?' 

'I want ghosts,' said Katz. 'Unless they have like, bows and eyelashes on them. That's just stupid.' 

'Are there no eyeball ones?' said Zeller, who was laying down the floor mats. 'I was gonna go for an eyeball.' 

'I'll keep an eye out,' said Will, which led to a chorus of _eyyyy!_ 's from the bartenders as a group. 

Will took down chairs as he made his way through the seating area. 'Abigail, you want anything?' 

She was sitting on the edge of the stage, not yet in her hostess attire, swinging her feet as she picked through the fishbowl that held the business card raffle entrants, removing the cards of patrons she knew were assholes. Next to her, empty since closing last night, was the band tip jar, the words _Just the tip!_ etched on the glass. 'If they happen to have boyfriends in stock, pick me up a couple,' she said. 

'You want a gift receipt?' 

'Of course. What do you take me for?' 

'Hey, why didn't _we_ get offered boyfriends?' Katz called from the bar. 

'You didn't ask,' said Will, writing _aprons_ alongside _towels_ on a scrap of paper from his pocket. 

'Didn't know it was on the table!' said Jimmy. 'If the house is buying, get me a baker's dozen! Ooh, and some diaphanous veils,' he added. 'Does Target carry veils?' 

'I'll see what I can do,' said Will, heading out down the length of the Dead Wall, recent photos leading to older ones closest to the door, an ombre from Kodachrome to black-and-white as the history of the Morgue unfolded in reverse. 'Evening, boss,' he said under his breath to the first picture, nodding slightly in acknowledgment to the silvery image of Bello Drago and his wife. 

* * * 

Towels, aprons. 

Will walked the brightly-lit store, as always feeling like he was in another world. A world where he was allowed to move among these people uninterrogated, these yoga moms with kids in their carts, these college students, these old guys who'd refused to carry a hand basket, shopping gathered in their arms. Typical and not remarked-upon. Just a man doing some shopping. 

Will didn't know if he'd ever get used to it. 

Towels, aprons. 

He found an eyeball one after all, but the ghosts had eyelashes. He got Katz a skeleton apron, instead. 

On his way to the registers, Will paused in front of a particular rank of products. He hadn't done it on purpose, but there he was. Autopilot. But these days, no one was surreptitiously checking to see if he picked up one of the squashy plastic packages, full of their folded secrets. If passersby assumed something, they assumed it was for a girlfriend, and that Will was hesitating in confusion about the difference between styles, sizes, and what wings were even supposed to do. A guy who passed behind him didn't look twice to determine whether Will had his eye on a hot pink box or a trendy, overpriced black one. Will was just a guy in the aisle. 

Normal. 

Unremarkable. 

Passing. 

Will took five steps along the row and picked up a box of condoms, deciding to go through a line with an actual cashier instead of the self-checkout. 

* * * 

When Will was a junior in college, one of his apartment roommates had a funeral for their former honorific. They and Will, along with Lisa and DeVon and Gabe, had poured out cheap booze on the ground in an abandoned graveyard where they had set up a stone marker. It was really just a brick that DeVon had carved in his ceramics workshop, but calling it a stone marker sounded much more appropriate. 

'Good riddance,' said the principle mourner, expression bright with the triumph of their new PhD. 'You, shell of my former life, die here and you stay here! I'm _Doctor_ Cavender now.' 

Will hadn't thought about it much in the years after, until he became Officer Graham, _Detective_ Graham. Until he felt as if a heavy burden had been lifted from him, a burden he hadn't even acknowledged was there. Then Will was shot, Will was stabbed, Will failed physicals and psych evaluations for returning to the field. Will went to physical therapy, trauma therapy, and spent long nights staring out over the New Orleans rooftops, wondering what the hell he was supposed to do, now. 

He left the force, left the state, left the old body on the floor in a pool of her own blood. 

She died there and stayed there. 

* * * 

_Gonna take a sentimental journey_

_Gonna set my heart at ease_

_Gonna make a sentimental journey_

_To renew old memories_

Will played the familiar chords by heart, not needing sheet music, not for standards or for anything else they performed; in the groove where a music book might have rested, there was instead a wooden spoon. 

He watched the rest of the band, watched how the horn players swayed with their eyes closed, felt the organic thrum of the upright bass. Bedelia's voice was holding up all right, but it had only been an hour and a half, and Will could see she was weary. Next break he'd check in with her, see what could be done. 

Patrons moved in harmony on the dance floor, mostly older couples. The younger set was at the bar for the slow songs, as usual, talking and drinking, waiting for the bigger swing numbers to come back at the beginning of the second set. Will could see the glow of many phones. 

_Got my bag, got my reservation_

_Spent each dime I could afford_

_Like a child in wild anticipation_

_Long to hear that "All aboard"_

Will looked out past the dancers, among the seated crowd. One of the bus boys was clearing a booth, sanitizer spray bottle hung by its trigger from a belt loop; others darted here and there with spent glasses stacked together, ice and all. There was a bachelor party group tonight, half of whom were at the bar. Several regulars had started talking to each other for the first time, and it looked like Diana-with-the-glasses was being flirted with by I'm-Diana-on-weekends-only. A trio of bearded men at a circular booth, two of them with shaved heads, alternated kissing each other slowly, hands clasped across the table. A few trans girls laughed together in line for the bathroom, one Latina showing the other four the gem details of her manicure. 

Will felt eyes on him. 

Not unusual, considering he was onstage. But he felt a particular keenness to this observation, and sought the source. 

Will couldn't see the patron's face clearly, at the back of the seated crowd and out of the light, but he could see the glint of eyes and the shape of his glass. Red wine. People rarely got wine at the Morgue, even though they kept a good stock. Will took note of it and continued to play. 

_Gotta take that sentimental journey_

_Sentimental journey home_

The band wrapped up the piece and Bedelia bowed to the applause. 'We'll be back in fifteen minutes, and when we do, clear the floor for the more acrobatic dancers to strut their stuff. Tonight I see Greg and Tim in the offing—' familiar regulars, who did swing competitions. This got a cheer from some among the crowd who knew them. 'So get ready for a wild show! Remember, for the next hour our signature cocktails are half off, so drink up!' 

The band set their instruments in their places and got up, stretching, as electro swing started playing over the speakers for the intermission. 

Will caught Bedelia in the wings. 'You look like hell,' he said. 

'I _am_ hell,' said Bedelia with a smirk. 'But... ugh, I feel like I gargled broken glass.' 

'If you were singing Tom Waits, that'd be reasonable.' 

Bedelia made a miserable noise and cleared her throat. 'I know, right?' 

'I might be able to talk the guys into going full blues for the last three sets,' Will suggested. 

'Jesus, you think I can _wail_ like this? You think I can _belt?_ I'd die. I'd end up on the Wall.' 

'I was kidding,' said Will. 'Look, go drink some hot water and I'll talk to Alana.' 

Alana didn't look happy, but she conceded his point. 

'Tell the guys to open with _Swing Swing Swing_ ,' she told him, 'and I'll do the next set. I'm rusty, but it's better than nothing.' 

* * * 

She was far better than rusty. Not that she'd listen if anyone told her that. 

'Miss B has suffered a Terrible Accident,' Alana said theatrically into the mic. 'She lost a _leg_ backstage. It's utter _carnage_ in that dressing room,' she added, rolling the R's. This drew equally over-the-top dramatic gasps from the crowd. 'A toast to Miss B! Make sure she can hear you from the back of the ambulance!' People raised their glasses and cheered. 'Some of you may remember me from when I used to MC.' More cheers. 'Well, I don't have the sparkly suspenders on tonight, but you're stuck with me for the next hour. So hold onto your parts—or your friends' parts,' she winked, to some laughter, and the band struck up the upbeat standard Alana had told them. 

They made it through the set all right, with a lot fewer songs and a lot of Alana warming back up to her old stage patter, engaging the audience and at one point getting a blushing girl to come up on stage with her and try scat-singing. At the end of the hour Alana had a drink in her hand, and saluted the crowd with it. 

'We made it!' she said, then repeating the old saw from her MC days, a few people saying it along with her. 'We did our best and nobody we care about died. Now, I'm off to go drown myself in a tub full of gin.' 

'So long!' cried a few patrons. 

'Adieu!' 

'We love you, Bloomers!' 

Alana gave them another wink, a flourishing bow that included a lot of cleavage, and left the stage as intermission began. 

Will found her chugging water, leaning against the wall backstage. 

'I lied,' said Alana. 'I'm dying. I don't think I've hit those notes in ten years, and my neck is killing me.' All those pins holding it together. 

'But you did it,' Will reminded her. 'That was great.' He smiled. 'Honestly.' 

'Yeah, well, I have no idea what we're going to do for the rest of the night.' 

Will had been mentally scrambling, too. 'We could call Jack? Bella's got a great voice, if she's free.' 

'You didn't hear this from me,' Alana began warningly, her voice low, 'but Bella's doing fuckin' chemotherapy.' 

'God,' said Will, a sinking feeling in his chest. 'I had no idea.' 

'She didn't want anybody to have an idea,' said Alana. 'Not even Jack. She said she's telling him tonight. So we _don't_ know until we're _made_ to know. I don't, and you don't. No ideas between us. We're dumb as a couple of fence posts, got it?' 

'Got it,' said Will. 

'No telling Uncle Jack.' 

'Not a word.' 

'Our lips are sealed.' 

'Silent as the grave.' They both looked away from each other, at that. 'Sorry,' said Will, genuinely. 

'Yeah.' Alana took another swig of water. 'Wish Margot were here.' 

'Me too,' said Will. 

'God, her voice is exquisite.' 

'I know,' said Will. 

'I could listen to her all day,' Alana pointed out. 'And so could everybody out there.' She sighed. 'Damn surgeons being in god damned fuckin' Philadelphia.' 

'Agreed,' said Will. 

'We're fucked,' said Alana after a moment. 'Who sings? Other than Jimmy.' 

'Why not Jimmy?' 

'Because then we're out a bartender on our busy night!' 

'Abigail sings a bit.' 

'She's a breathy little soprano, sweetheart. It doesn't fit the bill.' 

'She could go Jessica Rabbit with it.' They were desperate for a solution, but even Will knew that was a stretch. 

' _Our_ Abigail? She'd blush until she caught fire.' 

'True.' 

A moment passed. The sounds of merriment from the club and Caravan Palace on the speakers filtered back to them through the dim light. 

'I could do it,' said Will, at last. 'I guess.' 

Alana gave him a skeptical but nevertheless hopeful look. 'You still sing?' 

'Yeah,' said Will, already thinking that this was a _terrible_ plan. 

'I mean, I know I've heard you a little during practice and warm up. You sound good off the mic, I don't deny it, but... you can _sing_ sing?' 

'Yeah,' Will said again. It felt like a hot stone was lodged in his throat, making it hard to swallow the apprehension in his voice. 'If we need it.' 

'Are you kidding me right now? Of course we need it!' Alana spoke as if the matter was wholly settled. She sounded a little excited, even. 'And you'll be a hit with the guys, with that face of yours. We've got a few big tippers in tonight, you remember that tall guy who tucked a fifty into Margot's shoe four months ago? And Aunt Basie's here, she _adores_ you.' Aunt Basie was a notoriously generous sugar mama type, who always had young darlings of various genders clustered around her, hanging on her every word and the sleeves of her blue mink coat as she doled out gifts like sweets. She wore her hair in a severe black bob and would occasionally pay for her evening with an enormous check, far bigger than even the dozens of drinks on her tab merited. When the coastal winters were harsh and hardly anybody wanted to go out, Aunt Basie's affectionate largess was how they kept the lights on. 

'I'll do it,' said Will. 'I have to rework the set list,' again, 'but this is all stuff the guys know. They'll be fine.' 

'I'm sure they will,' said Alana, giving him a penetrating look. 'But will you?' 

'I wouldn't offer if I wasn't sure,' said Will, lying. 

'Yes you would! Of _course_ you would. You're _you_.' She rolled her eyes. 'I'll announce you when it's time. Heathen,' she added fondly, as a parting shot. She went back to her office. 

Will grabbed the master set list clip board, turned to a fresh page, and scrawled in what he was confident he could pull off. Another page, and another, to finish out the night. 

If he bombed, everyone would have a good laugh and for the next few weeks it'd be part of the stage banter, _hey, let's get our good ol' piano player to sing us a tune, shall we?_ , and after awhile it would be forgotten. 

If he succeeded... well. He didn't know what might happen, then. 

* * * 

Alana slid spectacularly up to the mic once more, doing a little spin. Despite all the years manning the desk and running the show from behind the scenes, she still wore her T-strap Capezio character shoes, and she hadn't lost her flair for performance, even if her neck was stiff. 

'Dear friends, esteemed guests,' Alana announced with a sweeping gesture to the assembled. 'Ladies and butches, gentlemen and not-so-gentle men, people for whom the binary is too damn _small_ —' that got a few whistles and cheers, 'queers and fairies and queens, and folks who just come out for a swingin' night... it is my honor, my fucking _delight_ to introduce to you the vocal stylings of our very own handsome devil at the baby grand!' 

Applause. One of the spots lit up Will at the piano, more brightly than it usually did. 

He adjusted the mic. He'd used it a lot more back when Alana was MC, when they'd had a smooth and easy cross-talk rapport, but after about the time they stopped hosting the burlesque troupe in 2013 and Alana's chronic pain had worsened, he hadn't put it to much use outside of the occasional joke with the band. Will stared it down now as if it were the barrel of a gun, felt a shiver of nerves jangle its way up his spine, and pulled himself together. 

Keep the evil spirits at bay. 

The upright bass slapped and thrummed into the opening bars. Will sat up straighter, took a breath, and sang as soon as his fingers pressed the first keys. The mask would descend. The old comfort and ease would return again. All he had to do was keep playing. 

_There are so many things I could say, my love_

_Make you trip so your lips would be mine_

_There are so many things I could do, my love_

_To convince you my love is divine_

_There are so many words I could tell you_

_There are so many moments in time_

_But I say 'fore we go to the land down below_

_If I tell you I love you_

Will cast a glance and a wicked smirk at the audience. 

_I'm lying_

Couples were dancing out past the footlights, one of the bussers had stopped to lean against the wall by the kitchen door to listen, and Will could see Zeller and Jimmy gesticulating in disbelief at each other in-between shaking martinis. 

_I maybe show the reason to call you up next time_

_So if you like your women sweet, ahhhh, consider me your wine_

Will hadn't bothered to re-gender the lyrics, and it didn't matter, not here, not these days. No one batted an eye, and in fact it got a few wolf whistles from the bear triad at the booth. 

_I may be one for weekends, to call you when you're flying_

_But if I ever utter I love you, honey, I am lying_

_And if I look into your eyes and tell you, honey, I am lying_

_And if I ever whisper words unheard, such sultry words_

He did a few little arpeggios across the keys, drawing out the anticipation, and his voice dropped low and nearly growling into the mic. 

_Oh, je t'aime_

_Oh oui, je t'aime_

_Baise-moi, je t'aime..._

The bass and the drums built to a throbbing crescendo. 

_Darling, I am lying_

It seemed like as soon as he finished singing, he forgot how to breathe. Time stretched to absurd lengths in the seconds before the audience reacted, making him wonder if it would ever come, or if a dead silence would stare back at him across the footlights for eternity. 

The applause came, then, to rattle his bones and prove him wrong. It took a long time to subside. Will spotted Abigail at the hostess lectern, grinning and giving him a double thumbs-up. 

'Thank you,' Will said into the mic as people settled down. 'Round this time of night we like to reintroduce the band, for you latecomers who were out leading clean, wholesome lives and weren't lined up panting for moonshine when we opened.' That got a few laughs. 'I'm Will Graham and this,' he made a sweeping gesture to the band, 'is my Theological Accident.' He played a little trill on the piano to punctuate. The patter was coming back. 'The reason they're mine is because I'm the one who bails them out when they get thrown in the tank. Bloomers won't do it, she has a known weakness for uniforms.' Another noodling little three-second tune across the keys. 

'And you're the master of the tip jar!' said the trombonist. 

'That's right, my friend. And it's looking suspiciously _empty_ for such an advanced hour.' Will raised an eyebrow. 'What's a guy gotta do to make some dough around here, flash a little leg?' Whistles from the crowd. 'Settle down, boys. The night's still young.' 

He led the band into the next song, and the next. It did come easier the more he opened up, despite still feeling raw under the scrutiny. Usually there was a gorgeous woman at the mic stand, with satin opera-length gloves and all the trimmings, to steal the show. Now—for the remaining two sets, at least—the spotlight was his. Will felt a prickle of heat crawl up the back of his neck whenever he got special attention, when someone would (rarely) scrawl their number on a bill before dropping it in the tip jar and mouthing _text me_ , when people talked to him after the show, but this? He felt like he was blushing all over. 

Not too shabby for the weird guy who lives in the middle of nowhere with all those dogs. 

During one of the band's favorites, a noisy and groan-inducingly raunchy rendition of _Coin-Operated Boy_ , Will spotted Jack and Bella at the bar. Bella was bundled in Jack's overcoat despite the heat of the room, looking worn and tired but happy to be there, chatting with Aunt Basie. Will tried to glance away, but not fast enough, and Jack caught his eye with indulgent amusement right as Will sang the line, _I can even fuck him in the ass!_

Four more songs with banter between, and the set wrapped up. 'We'll be back in fifteen, folks,' said Will, grabbing a water bottle from behind the piano and going off into the wings. Jack was waiting for him. 

'Boss,' said Will in greeting, still breathless from the last song. 

'You sing,' said Jack. Just facts. His expression was hard to read. 

'So they tell me.' 

Jack gave him a long look, leaning one shoulder against the wall, hands in his pockets. He got like that—all deceptively casual—when he was about to drop a bomb on your head. 

'How's a fifty dollar raise sound?' 

Will choked on his water for a second, but got it down. 'Per period?' 

'Per night.' 

Will had optimistically attempted a second drink of his water, and coughed, thumping himself in the middle of the chest. 'Jesus, Jack. One more crack like that and you'll void the warranty.' 

'I'm serious.' 

'You look serious.' Jack usually did, though, these days. 

'Approximately half of our patrons are male-of-center gays or bisexuals,' Jack pointed out. 

'I've noticed,' said Will. 'Queer is kind of our angle.' 

'Consider this further effort to diversify our offerings.' 

'I'll hop on the altar for slaughter the first chance I get.' A little too biting. 

Jack frowned at him. 'Will.' 

He recovered as best he could. 'I think we're pretty much hitting all cylinders of LGBT,' he said. 'Some of us two at once.' 

'We could do alternating sets,' said Jack. 

'We already do.' 

'Margot's on her surgical leave and will need time before she can hit the mic again. And Bedelia,' Jack added, 'sounded like death warmed up in a microwave before she went home.' 

Will crossed his arms, leaning back against the opposite wall of the passage. They stared each other down. 'They'll heal.' 

'Not fast.' 

'No. Not fast.' 

A few blinks passed. 

'Alana told me no more,' Jack reminded him. 'Not after what happened. We nearly had another death on the Wall. It was god's own luck she got through the one set, tonight.' 

'I know,' said Will, on a sigh. He forgot how perilously balanced they all were, sometimes. Too wrapped up in his own head until someone else's feelings squirmed into it, a foreign texture to Will's thoughts. 

'It opens wallets when there's demographically-appropriate eye candy,' Jack reasoned. 

'Is that what I am, Jack? Eye candy?' 

Jack made a so-so gesture with his hand. 'Ear candy, too. It's about fifty-fifty.' 

'Why, Mr Crawford,' said Will, intentionally needling him. A hand laid on Jack's arm. Big eyes and all innocence. 'I'm flattered, but you're a married man.' 

Jack _tsk_ ed at him, swatting his hand away. 'We've got this guy in, tonight, is all. Guy I've known for years.' 

'We've got about forty guys in,' said Will. Jack waggled an eyebrow, and Will cracked a brief smile. 

'This _particular_ guy,' Jack said, 'is thinking of going halves on running the place with Alana, or at least I'm currently wheedling him into thinking about it. For when I retire.' 

'Who's talking about retirement? You're a spring chicken.' 

Jack snorted. 'I think I'm more wild turkey than spring chicken at this point, and twice as ornery.' A beat. 'I want to take Bella to Italy.' 

'Ah,' said Will. There wasn't much else to say. 

'So this is a potential future co-owner we're talking about, here. Very real possibility. I'm still plying him with wine and sweet words, but he's not convinced. This isn't his line of business at all. But you know something, Will, it's the damnedest thing,' Jack sounded theatrically surprised, 'he just _lit up_ when you opened your mouth.' 

'They often do,' Will teased. The stage persona started to cling to him after a few hours, like a flirtatious wetsuit. 'And when I close it again.' 

'I'm sure.' Jack continued cajoling him. 'Come on, Will. Give it a go, at least try it for a month or something, all right? Three fifty extra every week buys a lot of quality grain-free kibble.' 

He said it like he was dangling a carrot. He hadn't yet broken out the stick, but Will knew where Jack kept it, could almost hear it swish through the air. 

'I do buy things other than dog food,' said Will. 

'Name one.' 

'Tennis balls,' Will replied, and Jack laughed. 

'You can buy all the balls you want,' said Jack, 'as long as you keep singing. Hell, not just for the dogs.' 

Will rolled his eyes. 'I think I'll pass.' 

They both grinned a little at that. 

'On having balls, or the raise?' 

'I think it takes a lot of the former to accept the latter,' Will hedged. 

'Uh huh.' Jack just looked at him for what felt like a whole minute, then said, 'All right. It's your call. We both know I can't make you do anything.' 

Jack waited. 

Will scrubbed a hand down his face, under his glasses. 'Are you just going to stand there looking all hopeful and _avuncular_ at me until I say yes?' 

'Yep,' said Jack shortly. 

'Won't work.' 

'I can look paternal instead.' 

'I'm immune.' Will smirked. 'Deep-seated daddy issues.' 

'Try me, big guy. I'm here all night.' 

'So am I,' said Will, doing his intermission finger stretches. 'Let me see how it goes, all right? I'll let you know in the morning.' 

'I'll hold you to that.' 

'You'd owe me,' said Will, not really meaning it. Jack knew all about Will's reclusive nature, his crankiness, his difficulty with social cues—all things that evaporated when he slid onto the piano bench, slid into the character he'd crafted for years under the lights. 

'Damn right I'll owe you,' said Jack. 'Seven hundred bucks more every pay check is nothing to shake a stick at.' 

Will's watch beeped the hour. 

'Time,' he said. 'Back down the hole.' 

'Alana will introduce you to our guy after wrap-up.' There was a hint of warning, there. For Will's sake or _about_ Will, it wasn't clear. 

'Got it. Rub elbows. Put on a happy face.' 

'Will,' Jack had caught his sleeve as he turned in the direction of the stage again. 

'Yeah?' 

'Do me a favor—' 

Jack looked more serious than he had before. Will tried to make light of it, thin the tension a little. 'Another favor? I don't have one on me, I'm trying to quit.' 

'Just,' Jack seemed to regret having asked, but felt compelled. 'Don't play _St James' Infirmary_. Not tonight.' 

Will remembered what Alana had said, that Bella was going to tell Jack tonight. Will had no idea. Dumb as a fence post. 

'Anything you say, boss.' 

* * * 

Will filled the fourth set with instrumentals—some Mancini, some Duke, some covers, peppered with ample solos that allowed the other guys to show off for awhile—to rest his voice and prepare for the final hour. Aunt Basie (as always) bought the band a round, and he got a glass of his favorite scotch out of it. It burned pleasantly going down, helping him loosen up still further, fingers gliding fluidly across the ivories. The heat he felt at being the center of attention had coiled into a dark, rich glow in the pit of his stomach, or maybe that was the alcohol. Didn't matter. _Shouldn't_ matter. The only ghosts here stared out from the photos on the wall. The only spirits here came in bottles. He felt good, grounded, truly _perfectly_ untroubled, for the first time in longer than he could remember. 

* * * 

At a little round table at the back of the audience, Hannibal observed. He sipped his wine and took in the show, thoroughly captivated as he might have been at the opera, basking in the energy of the dancers, the timeless feeling of the melodies. _That_ had surprised him. That, and the pianist. 

It was too soon to tell of what manner of material this Will Graham was made, too distant a vantage point to yet determine the subtle pattern. 

The easiest, if not the most elegant way to discover the warp and weft was to stretch it. 

* * * 

Rowdy electro swing thumped through the speakers again, the Theological Accident mingled with the crowd, and people got in their final orders as closing time approached. 

'Here he is,' said Alana. 'The man of the hour.' Will didn't know which of them she meant. 

'A singular pleasure,' said the stranger, turning the hand Will had offered for him to shake, bending over it as if to kiss it, stopping just shy. Will could feel his breath ghost across the hair on the back of his knuckles. 'You have a remarkably sweet voice.' 

'Comes with the territory,' Will said, somewhat thrown off. After the touch he had no idea what to do with his hands, keenly aware of them hanging uselessly off his arms. As useless as he felt when he wasn't hanging off the baby grand. 

He shoved them into his pockets. 

The stranger tipped his head to one side a little, watching Will's inner turmoil in silhouette as if it passed before him behind a scrim. 'And what strange territories have you traveled, Will?' 

Making recordings on his laptop at the end of every week to see if he could detect changes, _any_ changes. Impatient. Breaking sometimes, breaking down at how _slow_ this all was, screaming into a pillow until he was hoarse, because hoarse was tougher, sharper, less delicate. _Fuck_ delicate. Pulling himself together and regretting the scratch and strain as it irritated his vocal chords and made it hard to speak low enough without severely sacrificing volume. A whisper was sometimes worse than second soprano. 

Wailing along with Louis Armstrong records, surrounded by the hot steam of the shower with the bathroom door shut tight to keep it in, challenging his range until it nearly hurt, until it _did_ hurt. Singing the scales into his laptop mic, laying the recordings over and over each other to examine the peaks and valleys until, over six fucking goddamn _years_ , the upper portion of his register had dwindled away, grain by grain like sand from the bulb of an hourglass, down and down into a smooth baritone that he didn't have to push out like confession. Pitching all day, repeating introductions aloud in the mirror. _My name is Will Graham. Will. Hi, I'm Will._

'He's from the Deep South,' said Alana, rescuing him as she often did. 'They just make 'em like that down there. Sweet as sin and tempting as one more praline.' 

The man smiled, all with his eyes. 'I never knew.' 

'He's not from around here, either,' Alana told Will in an aside. 

'So you two know each other?' Small talk seemed safest, what with the tight fist of apprehension and attraction clenching in Will's gut. Was he passing? Did Will care? God, why did Will care so much? 

'I attended Hannibal's lecture course back when I was studying to be a shrink,' said Alana, then smirked. 'He doesn't like it when I call them shrinks. Ha! There it is. Did you see that little twitch in his left eyebrow? _Classic_.' 

Will at last found a buoy in the conversation and clung on. ' _Hannibal?_ Nickname or real name?' 

'Real, I'm afraid,' said Hannibal. 'With a Roman numeral to follow.' 

'Aristocratic,' said Will. An obvious thing to say, but he was good at that. Moving conversations along. 

'A fallen lord, if anything. Laid low in a world that no longer needs such titles.' 

'You seem to be standing tall.' God, now was not the time for the professional flirt to come back out (or was it?), but there it was, and Will slipped the mask back on as easy as breathing. It was safe in there. 'So is it... Your Excellency?' he tried. 'Your Grace?' 

'Learned grace,' Hannibal replied, falling into the call-and-response like he was born to it. Maybe he was. He was certainly born to something. 'Hard-won excellence.' 

'Hannibal,' Will repeated, enjoying the shape of it in his mouth. 'Rolls off the tongue.' 

'As does yours.' 

'What, _Will_? It's plain.' One of the reasons he'd always gone by it. Will Graham didn't stand out. There were twenty-nine thousand, three hundred and thirty-three people in the country named Will. 'Common.' 

'So are the buds of Sweet William, though I think you blush more fetchingly than they.' 

That made Will blush harder. 'Stop it, you. I've got to walk around after this little chat, you know.' Indicating that something might impede him. Little casual affirmations, strewn across Will's speech like the straw wrappers on the floor: mostly ignored or forgotten after they had served their purpose, but Will always spotted them from the stage when his audience left. 

'I've never seen you so talkative!' said Alana, with a chummy elbow against Will's side. 

'I've never met such a well-dressed doctor,' he said. 'They're usually all khaki pants, khaki bruises under their eyes and a look that says they wanted to go home ten hours ago.' 

'There's nowhere I'd rather be than where I am,' said Hannibal, and Will actually believed it. 

'So _are_ you a doctor?' 

'I was a surgeon.' 

'But you were instructing in psychology? Bit of a leap.' 

'A surgeon, then a psychiatrist. Now tailor.' 

'Are you a tinker and a spy, as well? Might as well fill out the bingo card.' 

'I tinker with form and color,' Hannibal conceded, 'and occasionally, still, with the unmapped expanses of the mind. Perhaps I am a sort of spy; to clothe someone feels more intimate as undressing them, don't you think? A fleeting glimpse into their secret self afforded to no one else, every hidden inch assessed and quantified to better bring out its beauty.' 

Will's face was radiating heat by the final word. Damn him. 'I have to ask. Did you make the suit you're wearing?' 

'I'm far too particular to allow anyone else.' 

'You could cut somebody, you're so sharp.' 

Another smile. 'I often have.' 

'Says the former surgeon. _Touché_.' 

'Merely a _prise de fer_ ,' said Hannibal. 

Will made a mental note to look that up. 'I'd schedule a fitting, if I didn't think it'd cost more than my house.' 

Hannibal took a silver case from the inside pocket of his jacket and plucked a business card from it, handing it to Will between his fingers. 'A complimentary measure, at the very least.' 

'Maybe I'll sing you some complimentary measures in return,' said Will as he ran his fingertips over the embossed black card. 

'A man can take thorough measurements anywhere.' 

'Oh, _can_ he?' 

Hannibal caught the play on words, because of course he did. 'In the sense that he might provide any worthy tailor with the information. Nothing more.' 

But there _was_ more. Will let his mind linger on the idea of this man's hands on him, turning him this way and that, armed with tape and pins as Will held very, very still before a company of mirrors. 

It was enough to make his voice crack a little as he said, 'Good to know.' 

Alana had been watching their rapport like a tennis match, or more accurately like she watched competitive ice skating, complete with the little delighted gasps of surprise at particularly skillful leaps. 'My, you boys really _got_ something.' 

Will laughed self-consciously, rubbing the back of his neck. 'The character kind of sticks around, especially after a few drinks.' He said this for Hannibal's sake, and maybe his own. Alana knew that, of course. She was the one who'd got him started. 

'I see,' said Hannibal, giving him a look that left Will feeling like his every hidden inch was already on view. 'I shall have to buy you another, then, so it will linger further. May I?' 

_May_ he? God, nobody ever asked, they just _did_. Acted. Took charge. Like Will would want whatever they had to give him, whatever they deigned to give him, _considering_. Considering his brain, and his body. Not considering Will, the person, much at all. 

But Hannibal sounded like he genuinely wanted Will's permission. Will's _invitation_. 

'Yeah, all right,' said Will. 'Only... you _do_ know I drink free here, don't you? Gotta keep the music box lubricated.' Will felt like he wasn't even chosing the words now, suggestiveness uncoiling from within him like a thin thread of smoke once the guttering flame of his social terror had been extinguished. Hannibal was easy to talk to. Easy to like. 

Easy to trust. 

'I should like to pay for the privilege, all the same.' Hannibal gave Alana a nod. 'Unless you would prefer to convince me that my money is no good here, being a dear old friend of both the manager and owners.' 

'Fat chance, Mr Smooth Talker. I'm not parting with the top-shelf stuff without a little kickback.' 

Hannibal's eyes crinkled at the corners again, and he turned back to Will. 'Lead the way.' 

* * * 

It was too loud barside to talk, and Will shrugged it off, said _next time_ , hoping there would be one. Hannibal bade him goodnight with another bow over Will's hand, like Will was the one with the fucking title or something. 

Probably for the best that they didn't have that drink. Will didn't know how long he could keep up with the seemingly endless undertow of Hannibal's repartee. 

People left in twos and in groups. The lights came up all at once. The bus boys began the sweep, put up the chairs. Will counted the tips into their envelopes, then ducked out of the stage door to the alley where he parked. 

It was slushing down bitterly, the wind off the bay searing his face with ice. He hurried to his truck and stuck the key in the ignition, and was met by the helpless whine and chug-chug-chug as the engine tried and failed to turn over. 

Will thumped the steering wheel irritably, cursing. Then he cursed again when the sting of it made its way from his cold nerves to his brain. 

Great. He opened the door again and darted back under the overhang, already soaked. He hadn't replaced his umbrella; the last one, cheap pop-up thing that it was, had turned inside out days ago. 

He felt eyes on the back of his neck and turned. Hannibal stood at a distance from him, his coat and scarf whipped by the wind, but his umbrella was anchored stronger than if it were made of iron. Will's mind went to a scattered thought about a surgeon's steady hands. 

'Won't start,' he said, half-yelling over the weather noise. 

'Getting a tow in this weather would be less than pleasant,' said Hannibal. 

'That's... not understating it.' Will had his arms folded tight across his chest, hands tucked under his sleeves for warmth, hopping foot to foot in the cold. He probably looked ridiculous. 

'May I take you home?' Hannibal said. 

'Uh...' Will swallowed. _Fuck_. 'I need to get back. Let the dogs out. Sorry.' 

Hannibal came and stood under the awning with him, blocking the wind with his body. ' _Your_ home, Will,' he said softly. 

Realization thumped against Will's mind and his eyes widened. 'Oh. Right.' His voice sounded absurdly high in his own ears. 'Oh, god, sorry, I didn't mean—' 

Hannibal waved it away, as if there was nothing to forgive, and led Will to where a sleek black Bentley was parked, still gloriously shiny even under the onslaught of sleet. 

'Holy shit,' said Will. 'You sure you want me to get in this thing?' 

'That would be key to the enterprise at hand, yes.' 

Will scrambled for further reasons why it was a bad idea. 'I live in Virginia.' 

'So do several of my intimate friends.' Hannibal held the door for him, umbrella kept over Will at all times. 'I wouldn't offer if I didn't care to follow through.' 

Will filed that away, even if it was just platitudes. He wanted to remember the look on his face later, the tone of his voice. It would warm him up better than the space heater at home. 

'Wolf Trap, Virginia,' said Will, still earnestly in favor of abandoning the notion. 

'I confess I'm unfamiliar with it,' said Hannibal. 

'Most people are unless they're in it,' said Will. 'That's why I like it.' An agonizing pause. 'It's a long, stupidly long drive. It'll be dawn before you get home.' Assuming Hannibal lived in the city. Assuming he didn't have some massive, sprawling country house with exquisitely-manicured lawns and fucking gargoyles on the corners. 

'I think that, perhaps,' a little smile, 'I might survive the ordeal.' 

Hannibal gestured for Will to get in, because he hadn't yet. Will caved and climbed into the sumptuous passenger seat, which had been pre-warmed. It was like a close, lingering embrace after the sharp scrape of the wind. 

Hannibal shut the door, got into the driver's side and slid the now-folded umbrella behind their seats. Will hadn't seen him fold it, but it was one of those huge ones with more boning than a high-end corset. Will thought back on the recently-departed, scraggly green disaster he'd picked up at CVS. Every time he'd tried to tuck it back into the matching sleeve it came in, it looked like a someone had tried to cram a whole smashed cabbage into a sandwich baggie. 

Hannibal fed their destination into the GPS. They made their way towards the highway in silence, through the haphazard mess of one-way streets that made up the fringes of Baltimore, only the tick of the turn signal and the swish of wiper blades accompanying Will's racing thoughts. 

He was warming up a little. 'Thank you,' he said, at last. 

'It's my pleasure, Will.' 

Will huffed a laugh. 'You've got an unusual idea of pleasure.' 

Hannibal glanced over at him; Will caught it only by chance, having dared to sneak a look, himself. 'One of my finer traits.' 

'How do you like the club?' said Will, hoping it was a safe topic, since Hannibal had seemed pleased enough while he'd been there. 

'Charming in every respect. It surprised me.' 

'Jack and Bella have good taste,' said Will, trying not to think too hard about how Hannibal must have been there for the X-rated reworking of _Coin-Operated Boy_ , which was anything but in good taste. 

'I had never visited before,' said Hannibal as he took an exit and got up to highway speeds, the Bentley's engine smooth and soft as a lullaby, 'despite many remarks from Jack. Bella finally convinced me. Anything for a friend.' 

Will said nothing, sensing that wasn't a stopping point. He was right. 

'Jazz has a certain appeal,' Hannibal went on. 'The technical skill required is often extraordinary. But I'd never found myself drawn to it. I tend to prefer symphonic compositions.' 

'You can just say classical,' said Will. 

'I did,' said Hannibal, sounding amused. 

'So you don't like jazz,' said Will. A familiar conversation he'd had dozens of times. 'It's an acquired taste. Though you have to admit, jazz and blues influenced everything that came after them.' 

A soft moment of what might have been hesitation. 'I like it now.' 

What had been familiar now careened off into uncharted shadow. 'What changed?' 

'Hearing you perform it.' 

That seemed to take something out of Will, leaving him breathless, like a punch. He changed the angle of the passenger side air vents, for something to do with his hands. 'Flatterer,' he muttered. 

'You imply that flattery is, by default, disingenuous.' 

'Unnecessary,' said Will. Just _how_ unnecessary wasn't the point, at least at the moment. They'd known each other for two hours. No—spoken for awhile, and now were speaking again. There was no _knowing_ , not yet, maybe not ever. 

'But not unearned,' Hannibal countered. He didn't press the issue further, try to convince Will of his talents or worth. He just drove in peaceful silence, allowing Will to mull it over. 

Nearly ten minutes had elapsed when Will spoke again, softly. The Bentley muffled the road noise so well that what might have otherwise been inaudible was as clear as if Will still had the mic in front of him, the rasp at the ends of his words softened by the warm cocoon surrounding them. 

'You know, places like the Morgue,' he began, then faltered, figuring out what he meant to say as it was coming out, 'most people check their masks at the door. The face they have to wear on the outside. Don't be too political or everyone's red flags go off and they suspect you of something. You might be able to be out as gay at work, but only gay. Don't be _queer_ , don't be an _aberration_ , because then just existing in the same room as an offended person is construed as some kind of... I don't know, _attack_. Just act like a straight man, they tell us. But with the expectation to shoulder the emotional labor that's usually demanded of women.' Will took a breath, and appreciated that he was allowed to ramble, even though he'd probably regret it. 'If you're a woman and act straight, you can kind of get by, but then other queer women feel alienated by you and always worry they've misread the signs, all while secretly wondering how you can pull it off. Act like neither, or if acting straight doesn't do you any good...' Will looked out of the window into the dark, watched the sleet slide in rivulets along the window at an angle. What he'd meant, what he'd wanted to say was, _if you're trans._ Insinuations sliding around like ice on the road. 'You're fucked.' 

He stopped, catching himself on a breath of laughter. 

Hannibal glanced over at him. 'Will?' 

'I just suddenly felt like I wasn't allowed to say _fuck_ in a car this nice.' 

'You may say whatever you please to me, in this or any other car.' 

'Is that a fact?' 

'It is.' 

'Duly noted and filed.' 

Hannibal considered what had gone before, the great press of urgency and bone-deep exhaustion in Will's voice. How different was this Will from the one back at the nightclub, that effervescent showman who always knew just how to curl a phrase into _come hither._ 'You hang up your mask on the way out,' he said. 

Will let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. 'That about sums it up.' 

'There's no need to worry you'll offend me,' said Hannibal. 

'It's more that you might be offended _by_ me,' said Will. 

Hannibal didn't ask, didn't delve. He simply accepted. 

Strange. Even a little unnerving, like Will was just... 

_Normal_ . Just like him. 

'Look, I know I'm breaking the first commandment of _thou shalt not ask the orientation of strangers_ but are you gay, or what?' 

'Or what,' said Hannibal, with faint amusement. 

Will felt stupid. 'Thanks,' he said. Sarcasm was one of the few shields within reach, so far from a stage. 

'When it comes to my experience with a partner, I am aware that what I perceive of them is largely learned behavior. Society has shaped them in the role they have, or have not, chosen. The foundation of the self, whatever it may be, is what inspires that gender to take place.' 

_To take place._ He said it like it was an event, or an ongoing process. Not something that just... existed. You didn't hear that from many people who weren't also a little off-label genderwise, themselves. 

'To me,' Hannibal added, and Will wished he hadn't, 'gender in and of itself hardly matters.' 

Will leaned his forehead against the chill of the window, hoping a little resentfully that it would leave a smudge. 'Don't tell me gender doesn't matter. It _always_ matters to people, in the end.' 

'How so?' 

It wasn't a demand for Will to educate him, thank god. Will had grown tired of being strangers' personal Trans Google over the years. It was more like a request for elaboration. And as far as he knew, Hannibal hadn't clocked him. 

Yet. 

Always waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the assumptions and positive associations and memories to be swept to the curb in a heap in favor of _the Real you._ Fuck that. Will _was_ the real Will. The person he'd been before had been the cheap fabrication, falling apart at the seams. The person he'd been before was dead. 

He still shifted uncomfortably. Some days people being decent (even just not grossly bigoted) about it, decent and goddamn _reassuring_ like it didn't take any effort for them at all, was harder to countenance than them being shitty instead. 

He hadn't wanted the conversation to go like this, but it was his can of worms and he'd opened it. They were harder to get bottled back up than his busted umbrella had been. 

'Sorry,' he said, and he meant it. 

'Think nothing of it,' said Hannibal, and Will suspected he meant it, too. 

* * * 

A sea of doggy happiness nearly bowled Will over as he opened the front door. The whole pack of them ran out into the dark yard to do their business as quickly as possible, turning back around before Will had even kicked his muddy boots off. They were soaked with slush, steam rising off their coats. 

'How many _are_ there?' said Hannibal, sounding genuinely baffled. 

Will wiped paw after paw of mud and then waded through the tide to throw his sodden jacket in the washing machine, Hannibal behind him. Not turning to flee while Will was distracted. Didn't seem to know what to do with himself. Good. At least they were on somewhat even footing, now. 'Seven, at the moment.' 

_'At the moment?'_

'They find me,' said Will, hesitating only a second before shucking his button-up in the machine, too. He had a t-shirt on under it, it's not like he was getting naked in front of the guy or anything. Still, he fought down the urge to throw on another overshirt immediately, just in case. Old habits. 

'Stricken by an ancient curse, were you?' Hannibal remarked, giving Buster a wary look that was returned with a goofy grin of instant and eternal affection. 

'Not a dog person, huh? I should've guessed.' Will was still shocked that Hannibal had agreed to come in for coffee at all. But, as he'd said, it was nearly dawn. A weak, shaky light was starting in the east where the storm had already spent itself, clear but cautious over the distant edge of the Atlantic. 

Might as well make the man breakfast. It was the least he could do. 

Pickle had come and rested her head on Hannibal's shoe, content with her new favorite human pillow. 'I'm a _people_ person,' said Hannibal. 

'Dogs are easier than people,' said Will. 

'Not to me.' Hannibal tried to move, but found himself hemmed in. 'I wouldn't trade my curse for yours.' 

'Really? What's on the table?' Will got the wash going and closed the lid, turning to look at him. 'Oh my god, your face right now.' Will pressed past him through the doorway, close enough to feel the cold still clinging to Hannibal's overcoat. He went into the kitchen and the dogs followed, eager for breakfast. 

'Shall I make the coffee?' said Hannibal, out of his element. He took off his coat and suit jacket, draping them over one of the superfluous chairs at the kitchen table. 

Thank god Bedelia had given Will a French press after his old no-brand four-cup machine had started a minor electrical fire. That little adventure had put Will's left hand in bandages for over a week. Jimmy was Will's stand-in at the piano, and Bedelia did _not_ like Jimmy for accompaniment. Will figured that Hannibal was more used to the ritual of a French press than he was, so he nodded. 

'You have a piano in the front room,' Hannibal said, measuring out coffee grounds. 

'It was free to take away,' said Will, poking around in the cabinets. 'You have no idea how many free pianos there are in this world. People are dying to get rid of them.' 

'Perhaps you ought to acquire more of them in the future, rather than dogs.' 

'Funny.' 

'What's not to like? They all have their own unique personalities and needs, much like an animal does, though for a substantially lower cost.' 

'Nah. Pianos are drinkers.' 

The dogs settled down around the table, optimistic as ever at the possibility of tidbits. Will got some center-cut bacon out of the fridge— _fancy_ bacon, he still thought of it as, being a couple bucks more expensive than the paper-thin stuff—and warmed up the cast iron pan. He roughly cut up the bacon, broke it up into manageable pieces, then diced two yellow potatoes that had been sitting on the counter, a length or two apart like strangers at a bus stop. He threw those in, too, when the bacon was just starting to curl, with a knob of butter and a crank or two of cracked pepper, and put a mismatched stainless steel lid on the pan. 

'Food in about twenty,' said Will. He'd clear a space, crack a few eggs in there in the last couple minutes and call it done. 'I didn't have an onion,' he added, a little apologetically. 

'Do you have a kettle?' 

'Oh, right.' Will went out into the front room to get it, explaining as he returned. 'I was filling a hot water bottle and was too cold to put it back in the kitchen.' 

Hannibal sized up this admission. 'You do have a fireplace,' he pointed out. 

'I can't stand chopping wood.' Even though he wanted to, could think of few things more supremely, classically masculine than an axe thudding down all afternoon so that he could be warmer that night. But moving his arms over his head pulled at the scars, both the intended and the unlucky. Made them itch. 

'You can buy it,' said Hannibal. 

'Space heater,' Will replied shortly. 'Pile of dogs.' He lifted the lid of the pan and jabbed the potatoes around inside to make sure they browned at all angles. 'I don't tell you how to live your life, Fancy Man.' 

'True. We did just meet.' 

Will felt like he'd almost forgotten. Despite the off-and-on tension in the car—entirely manufactured by himself, Will added irritably in his mind—being around Hannibal had felt comfortable and safe. Like he could just... just stop and _breathe_. Exist. 

That was a hell of a thing. 

They ate at the kitchen table, Hannibal looking less out of place now that he'd rolled up his sleeves to just under the elbow, unbuttoned the top button of his dove grey shirt. 

'This is good,' he said. 

'I don't have any Michelin stars, but it beats Kraft singles on Wonder bread.' 

Will thought he saw Hannibal suppress a gentle shudder at the suggestion. 

'How did this happen?' said Will, gesturing vaguely between them. Not really expecting an answer, because he certainly didn't have one. 

'You should call a towing company,' Hannibal reminded him. 

'Ah, shit.' Will pronged a potato with his fork. 'And nobody's going to want to come out this far to get me out to the city for the night with the roads like this.' 

'Let me,' said Hannibal. 

'What?' 

'Pay for a cab into Baltimore,' he said. 

Will narrowed his eyes. _'Why?'_ He drew the word out long like pulling taffy, to make his skepticism perfectly clear. 

'Because you need transport. Because I'd like to.' 

Will continued to peer at him. 'Uh huh. Fifty plus miles of rush-hour cab fare that crosses state lines, out of the goodness of your heart?' 

'Hardly. I would hate to miss out on your next performance, and that would most certainly happen if you didn't show up. Jack said you'd agreed to continue as a vocalist.' 

Will took a bite and chewed, probably longer than was necessary. Freezing rain pounded the roof, the windows, the porch. Of course Jack had said that. 

Well, Will hadn't really planned to say no. 

'And what do you get out of this?' 

'Aside from the chance to watch you again?' 

The way he said it made Will feel... not shy, entirely, because he was neither entire nor shy. 

It made Will feel like he was _important_. Like he wasn't a piece that could be slotted out and slotted back in again without notice. Which was funny, because that's exactly what _had_ happened. And people had definitely noticed him. 

'Or I could drive you,' Hannibal suggested. 

'What? No! I've already cost you one trip here and back.' 

'And have compensated me with your company and this repast,' he replied. 

Will frowned down at his plate for a moment, weighing the pros and cons of ways he could respond to that. 'It's not that good,' was all he could think to say. 

'Nonsense. A good first showing, lacking only a little in presentation.' 

'Are we discussing my home fries or my company?' said Will. 'Or, hell, my performance?' 

'What do you want to be talking about?' said Hannibal. God, he really _did_ sound like a therapist. 

Will let a long breath out. 'The last thing.' Seemed safest. He already knew Hannibal had enjoyed it. 

'You sound like Mel Tormé.' 

Will looked back up at him. 'I thought you said you didn't like this stuff.' 

'I said that I hadn't appreciated it fully before hearing you, not that I was unfamiliar.' 

'Oh.' 

Hannibal took a sip of his coffee. 'My aunt had several of his records, among others of the genre. It was from them that she began to teach me English.' He set the mug down again. One of the dogs sighed under the table, getting more comfortable. 'I was a reclusive youth, loath to communicate with anyone, but music spoke to me. So I, in turn, would speak to it.' 

'That's... wow,' said Will. Both at this slice of Hannibal's history, freely given to him like a little pearl dropped into the palm of his hand, and at the comparison. 'Thank you for telling me that.' 

Hannibal nodded slowly, a shadow of his previous bow over Will's hand. 

They finished eating and Hannibal insisted that he help Will wash up. 

'God, it's like six in the morning,' Will groaned as he straightened up from bending over the sink. 'You must be wiped out, too. Coffee is good and all, but it's not necromancy.' 

'Thank you,' said Hannibal, inexplicably. 'I feel as if I was brought into a strange little world, tonight. One I hadn't known existed.' 

Will wanted to say _me too_ , but tiredness won that battle so he nodded sagely and said, to break the little thread of tension Hannibal had unwound between them with those words, 'Dog people truly are another species.' 

Hannibal laughed, a short, bright flash, like sparks seen through a distant window. 'You should sleep.' 

Will walked him to the door. 

'Goodnight, Will.' 

'Good morning, Hannibal.' 

Will remembered just as Hannibal had nearly reached the car. 'Fuck. Hang on! _Hey!_ How do I get ahold of you?' 

'You took my card,' said Hannibal. 

'It only had an address on it.' 

He could see Hannibal's slight smile even from ten yards away. 'Look again.' 

He listened to the crunch of gravel as the Bentley pulled away. Will fished the card out of his pants pocket and looked at it in the grey morning. Matte black with a satin black inset border, Hannibal's name and the address of his shop (high-rent retail district that had been gentrified in the last decade, and Will hadn't expected any less), under which the card simply stated, _Business Conducted In Person._

Was he missing something? Will turned it over, and something caught his eye. 

On the back, in black ink that had the barest sheen to distinguish it from the card itself, whorled a beautiful copperplate script, handwritten. A phone number. 

Will felt his heart do an arpeggio for no reason that had anything to do with logic, and he went back into the house, a few of the dogs nosing at his hands as he came back in, wondering why it was not yet time for Sticks and Other Sundry Games. 

He sat down at the piano and slid back the fallboard, unfurling one last little tune before sleep. He picked up in the middle—he often did, when he was alone. No one to ask him what he was playing, or why. 

_Should auld acquaintance linger in your heart_

_Then don't forget we're just a dream apart_

_Tomorrow night seems years away_

_But after all, it's just a day_

_And I'll remember every word you said—_

Will trailed off, but played to the end of the line. Then he scrunched out of yesterday's clothes and crawled into bed, more tired and more hopeful than he'd felt in years. 

* * * 

_Bzzt bzzt bzzt._

Winston and Banjo perked up, looking at the bedside table. Will slept restlessly on, his forehead dappled with sweat. 

_Bzzt bzzt bzzt._

Some time later, the alert went off again. 

_Bzzt bzzt bzzt._

Will jolted awake with a strangled noise, turned over and groped for his phone, squinting in the late morning light. The storm had, as predicted, blown itself out, leaving the sort of pale, clear sky that looked washed out from the effort. 

A text from Alana: _If you get cold feet tonight, Z's threatened to do standup._

That woke Will up a little more. 

_Good morning, grumpy pants!_ said the second text, followed by six assorted emojis. Margot. 

_hey_

_I got to Philly all right. Had the whole cheese steak experience. Super authentic._

_how was it_

_Revolting. Never again._

Will sat up, shoving the covers away so he could get out of bed and let the dogs out. They exploded from the porch like furry torpedoes into the frost-crisp grass. Will left the door propped open and went to start some coffee, shivering as fear sweat cooled rapidly on his skin. 

_i had to sing last night_

_What??? Omg how did that go?_

_i did my best and no one we care about died_

_That's the spirit!_

Will got out a mug and tried to remember when he was supposed to push the handle down on the French press. Was it immediately, or after ten minutes? He waited for the kettle to boil, killing time. 

_how are you holding up_

Margot was typing for some time. 

_As well as can be expected when my balls are going to end their lives in a medical waste sack somewhere. I keep wondering like, why am I freaked out by that? I don't want them anyway._

_I wish I could donate them to somebody_

_I keep thinking the word over and over. Orchiectomy, orchiectomy, orchiectomy._

A pause. 

_Damn, my autocorrect did not enjoy that._

_bodily integrity is one of those things that carries a lot of weight with the human psyche_ , Will replied. 

_Ooookay Dr Expert_

_sorry_

Will waited a second before following up with, 

_i still have a lot of the cop psychology stuff rattling around in my head_

_I much prefer pop psychology. I do magazine quizzes that tell me what kind of love language I have or whatever._

_huh_

_I'm a toss up between receiving gifts and physical contact._

_why not both_

_Exactly. I need somebody to shower me with presents and kisses like, yesterday._

Will pressed the coffee plunger down to the bottom of the glass carafe. He really needed to look up whether he was doing this right. But for now, bad coffee was better than none. 

_consider this a text hug_

_Aww, you're sweet._

A few minutes passed as Will made some toast. 

_Do you remember right after I started at the Morgue and I showed up at your house with whisky for no reason?_

_how could i forget_

They had talked about scars. Will had felt his pulse speed at the base of his throat, nervous but in a way that was familiar, a way that put him at ease. 

'I'll show you mine if you show me yours,' Margot had said. 

Will had frowned a little, remembering a conversation he'd heard between her and Katz back at the club. 'I don't have the right parts for your proclivities, Margot.' 

But she'd looked at him, then, a long and assessing gaze, and Will realized that maybe he'd misread things. If it had been _just_ about parts, Will would have been wrong. He didn't know if Margot knew that, yet. Or what she would think of him when she did. 

Maybe it didn't matter. 

They had unbuttoned each other's shirts. Margot's fingers gentle over the scar on his shoulder, the exit wound of another life. Will's touch hesitant across the raised ghosts of gashes that striped her back. 

'Who did this to you?' 

'My brother.' 

Shirts off, they examined each other. Margot's hand skimmed over his chest, over the scars below his pecs, almost but not entirely hidden by hard work and a scant growth of soft hair. Her own chest was small, budding from her own efforts. Her nipples peaked under Will's thumb. 

'I'm a girl,' Margot told him, her voice a little unsteady but determined. As if Will didn't know. As if Will might have decided to ignore it. 

'I know.' Will swallowed, daring to meet eyes again. 'I'm not,' he said. 

She kissed him. 'I know.' 

Back in the present, the toaster popped up. Will looked down at his phone. 

_Thanks for that._

The text he hadn't opened yet was from Jack. All it said was, _So?_

Will thought of the people who needed him, and moreover, the people who wanted him. He tried to believe it. Believe was a verb. Take action. Keep the evil spirits at bay. 

_I'm the man for the job._

* * * 

Will needed to head into the city in about an hour, so he took a chance and texted Hannibal. He didn't know if he could handle him over the phone, right now. Will would just want to curl back up under his blankets and listen to Hannibal talk all day. 

_hey it's will graham_

_I've been expecting you. Shall I come pick you up?_

Will wanted to say yes, but. But. 

_it's the middle of the afternoon_

_I'm aware._

_don't you have work or something? tailoring_

_I wouldn't have offered if I suspected I could not get away._

Even though Will knew what he meant, it felt like a loaded statement. Will often didn't make commitments unless he had an escape plan so he could duck out halfway through. 

_a cab is fine. if you're still willing_

_Very well. I'll see you tonight._

_thanks again_

Will put his phone face down and got into the shower so he wouldn't just keep talking and make a fool of himself. When Will was almost out the door, hair damp and a taxi waiting for him in the gravel drive, he checked his phone again. 

_Thank you for allowing me._

* * * 

The performance was going well. Will had sat with the band for an hour or so before opening, figuring out the set list, how and when to break for banter so they could get their breath back for certain numbers. It was a crowded night, with tips pouring in. Will's confidence was growing. 

He tried not to scan the crowd for Hannibal, but kept doing it anyway. And during the fourth set, Will saw him, because Hannibal gave him a solemn wink and left a hundred dollar bill in the tip jar. 

At the last intermission, Will fished it out and sought him in the crowd, skirting compliments, flirtation and handshakes from patrons as he went. He found Hannibal at one of the darker-lit booths and laid the bill on the table. 'What the hell is this?' 

'Legal tender, unless I'm very much mistaken.' There was a twinkle in his eye. 

'You can't tip me a hundred fucking dollars.' 

'Why not?' Hannibal made an open gesture with his hand, beckoning Will to sit across from him. 'Please, explain it to me.' 

'Aside from the fact that you drove me home last night and paid for a cab today? Aside from the fact that you may buy the place, which will make you my boss?' 

'At this stage there is no longer uncertainty about it,' said Hannibal. 

'That's even worse! Just... don't do this. All right?' 

Hannibal took in Will's body language, the look on his face. Even in the low light it was obvious. 'You're blushing, Will.' 

'Yeah, it's an ancient curse,' he said, voice snagged with a thorn of sarcasm. 'Take your damn money back.' 

A fine line appeared between Hannibal's eyebrows. 'You have yet to present a compelling reason why I should.' 

Will couldn't say _because only Aunt Basie does that here_ , and he definitely couldn't say _because I got a little thrill when I saw you do it._

'I'm just doing what I always... I haven't _earned_ this,' said Will, immediately regretting the word choice. 

Hannibal let Will stew in his embarrassment for a few moments, almost too long to bear. 'Would you like to?' 

Warmth twisted at the base of Will's spine. 'Would I like to what?' 

'Earn it,' said Hannibal. Neutral tone, free of judgement or bold implication, but Will imagined both overlaying it like veils, clouding its intent. 

Will's head thudded against the barrier between booths as he tipped back and groaned in irritation. 'Can't you just take it back?' 

'Did you leave your mask onstage, Will?' Hannibal asked, like he was genuinely curious. 'You were another man, last we spoke here.' 

'I was a man who hadn't been tossed a hundred bucks like it's a single.' 

'I hardly tossed it at you. _That_ would be untoward.' 

'You didn't tuck it into my damn garter, either, but that's what it feels like,' Will muttered, face in his hands. 

Hannibal just watched him, eyes smiling. 

'You know what?' said Will, straightening up in his seat. 'Fine. _Fine_. I'm gonna break it at the till at the end of the night and split it up for the band, like I do with the rest of the tips.' 

'That is, of course, your prerogative.' 

Will waited a couple of blinks. 'That's it? You're giving in? God, you were _another man_ last time we spoke here.' 

'Sometimes one finds it most agreeable not to press,' said Hannibal. 'Clearly you're perturbed, and I had no wish to alarm you.' 

'How do... why do you _talk_ like that,' Will found himself saying. 'Every phrase out of your mouth is lyrical.' Will almost expected to catch him spinning iambic pentameter into regular sentences. 

'I told you how I learned English,' Hannibal pointed out. 'Music, and later poetry, were my primary teachers.' 

'And your aunt. Did she sound like that, too?' 

'A certain flavor of one's mother tongue lingers, yes. Though she spoke French in her day to day life, she was Japanese. A very musical language, with which to paint vivid images upon the screen of the mind.' 

Will shook his head. 'You're too much,' he said. 

'Am I?' 

'Entirely too much.' Will got up, picked up the money and held it between his fingers, like when Hannibal had given Will his card. 'I'm taking _none_ of this,' he said. 

* * * 

'You're taking _all_ of that,' said Alana. She had her arms crossed, looking down at the table where Will was counting out the tips. The drummer had seen and asked who the hell was leaving benjamins in the jar—everyone knew Aunt Basie would have left a check—and Alana had overheard, and here they were. 

'Do I have to?' said Will. 'I'm already drowning in cash, what with the raise and—' 

'And how fucking good a performer you are? Gee, it's almost like people want to pay for the privilege to listen to you, Will! Sure sounds fake to me.' 

'That makes two of us,' said Will. 

Alana gripped either edge of the circular table and leaned over at him. 'Will. Stop. I know why you're like this, and I know you hate it, but I also know how you could _stop_ being like this.' 

'Take cover,' said Katz from over at the bar where she was restocking napkins. 'That's the shrink voice.' 

Alana ignored her, mostly because she was right. 'Radical acceptance, Will, remember. Wholly embrace, believe, and commit to the present moment, whatever it is. No guilt from the past, no fears of the future. Just now.' 

'I kind of flunked out of therapy, if you recall,' said Will, continuing to count out singles into separate stacks. 'I don't test well.' 

'I'm not testing you, I'm telling you. _This is reality, Will._ People think you're great. Not just your fellow stiffs, either.' 

Will _was_ actually starting to see that. But after so long on the other side of the coin, instinct drove him to flinch from it, waiting to be told it was a joke, that everyone had been humoring him, that he was in trouble for daring to think so highly of himself. Highly, in this case, meaning _at all._

'Y'know, technically, _now_ is all that exists,' said Jimmy helpfully as he tightened the screws on a wobbly bar stool. 'Time doesn't work the way we've always assumed it does. It may not even be real.' 

'I'm using that the next time I'm late,' said Katz. 

Alana put her hand over Will's, one stroke of her thumb against his. 'Just think about it, okay?' 

'Think about how the past is an illusion and nothing that ever happened was real? Sounds great. I'll get right on that.' 

'I'm serious, Will.' 

He looked away. 'I know. I get that you're trying to help.' He slid his hand out from under hers. 'I'm sorry.' 

'You don't need to be sorry for anything,' she replied, tucking the hundred dollar bill into his front jacket pocket. 'Especially yourself. Do me a favor, all right?' 

'Aside from contemplating the ceaseless drone of the universe? Sure, boss.' 

'Talk to Hannibal. He said he didn't mean to freak you out, and he wants to apologize somewhere where it's easier to talk. _Not_ over text message,' she added. 'Go to the shop and see him. Get your damn measurements—you need more suits now that you're headlining for the time being, something sharp. He can bill me if you want, I don't care. It's an excuse for you to talk, and you can leave as soon as it's over.' 

Will sighed, sitting back in his chair. There were no more tips to count. 'All right.' 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Have you ever been measured by a tailor before?' said Hannibal as he took Will's coat and hat.
> 
> Will thought back on comparing size charts on the internet, struggling for years and several wasted paychecks to find shirts that looked right. Thought about the nurse who measured him for his post-surgical vest. 'Nope.'

During the mid-century it had been a tailor's shop called Drago's. Run by a delicate-boned Italian man and his (as she was always described) fascinating wife, the shop became a refuge for those the city rejected: the wide spectrum of people who'd been cast aside like alley trash, for their creed or their race, for their manner of speech, for those with whom they chose to share a promise or even just a dalliance. Much of the original beauty of the structure endured, including the front room's mural ceiling, and, naturally, the bones of the row house it had once been before they'd knocked through some of the downstairs in 1929 and set up the mirrors. 

Benigno (called Bello) and Jacqueline Drago had lived upstairs, with a view down the hill that led to the harbor, and a lanky black cat that had followed them home off the street. It was there they made their lives until the cold seeped into their bones, time dimmed their vision and set their stitches crooked. Their cat had gone to wherever cats go when they are complete; the world was changing, and the city wasn't what it once was, for good or ill. The Dragos bought an acre of macadamia orchard in California and gifted the deed and stock of their shop to their faithful assistant, a Jewish girl with wild curls and a tendency to talk so fast she tripped over her words. She ran the shop, with the help of the young goy mathematician who was to be her husband, until they had married and then long after. 

When the time came, she left the shop to her own faithful assistant, an unusual gentleman named James Vartanian, called Vartan by his friends. He had been to medical school, he said, but was more fascinated with the _aesthetic_ alteration of the human body than its treatment in illness. There not being much call for that sort of thing among the general population at the time (this wasn't Hollywood, after all), and with very few avenues by which to study his craft, Vartan turned to clothes, resigned to the idea that if he were to help others express their true form at all, it must be through this medium. But as the years drew on, in one of the upper rooms he would now and then take a patient in secret, shaping their mortal flesh as they saw fit, giving and taking away. Some died. 

Many lived. 

In time, Vartan's companion, a French-Canadian bootmaker named Aloysius, took over the shop, and the little room which had once been the Dragos' kitchen, in which Vartan had operated, was closed up. Used to store boxes and bolts of fabric, its white enamel operating table tucked up against the wall, dust gathering over the years. When Aloysius passed one night in his sleep, his adopted daughter cleared it out so she could let the upstairs flat to boarders. After all, there was only a _little_ blood in the grain of the wood floor, hidden well by a cherry-tinted polish. No one ever looked very closely, and she was grateful. 

The building changed surprisingly little with time and the cycle of ownership: the mural ceiling was never painted over, the flooring never replaced, down and down the line as it changed hands. When it had stood empty and on the market for a few years, a young man of considerable inheritence graduated from Johns Hopkins and bought the house. First to live there and avoid the ever-increasing rent that came with city apartments, then to use the light, airy downstairs as an office when he began to practice psychiatry, then later as a place to retreat from the grand and only half-untrue façade he had constructed of himself. He could smell the blood in the floorboards, and it made him smile, made him feel welcome. Like the house was already his. 

He practiced his therapeutic work with as much devotion as he practiced his art, though perhaps without quite as much care. The two pursuits would intertwine in interesting ways, overlap until one threatened to consume the other whole. He moved his practice to a bigger office in a more upscale part of the city, moved into and beautified a grand, expensive house. People he encountered spoke highly of how he had enriched their lives with his insight. Many of his patients learned to endure and to manage their illness under his care. Many embraced life. 

Some did not. 

Now a passerby could see a little waiting room beyond the front window of what had once been Drago's, its Danish modern furniture of dark leather and wood. A beautifully simple sign hung from a coil of wrought iron above the shop, creaking in the wind: 

_Atelier de Sang_

_Personal Clothier by Appointment_

'Please come in,' said Hannibal, and when Will stepped inside, he closed the door. 'I hope you were able to find parking.' 

'Car's in the shop.' Possibly for good. Will didn't want to think about the process of replacing it, not now, too many changes happening at once made him feel unmoored. Abigail had driven him home last night, with the radio on the alternative rock station, talking about her classes at culinary school and how she was doing with knife skills. 'I took the bus.' 

'Have you ever been measured by a tailor before?' said Hannibal as he took Will's coat and hat. 

Will thought back on comparing size charts on the internet, struggling for years and several wasted paychecks to find shirts that looked right. Thought about the nurse who measured him for his post-surgical vest. 'Nope.' 

'Some who are new to the practice find it overly personal, but I assure you it's necessary for a good fit.' 

'What sort of fit were you thinking?' said Will. There was soft classical music—sorry, _symphonic compositions—_ playing from somewhere, though he didn't see any obvious speakers. The air was comfortably cool in the room, not the blast of glasses-fogging heat people usually favored during east coast autumns. A long room divider bookcase separated the seating area from the rest of the shop, its shelves artfully laden with the perfect amount of books and an unusual assortment of objects: a bronze sculpture of an elk, clocks, unfamiliar bottles, a ceramic phrenology bust, shallow bowls arranged with decorative spheres of varying texture and size. 

'Something close and slim of line, tailored to allow the body to be seen rather than overwhelmed. If only,' Hannibal added, 'to appeal to your audience.' 

Will was examining a fragile, tiered bonsai. 'Not to appeal to me?' 

'One is always audience to the unfolding drama of the self.' Hannibal inclined his head. 'And I assume you own a mirror. This way, please.' 

He led Will back behind the divide. 

'You may disrobe behind the screen,' said Hannibal. 'Undress as much or as little as you feel will be comfortable. It's important to relax.' 

'Right,' said Will, stepping into obscurity and mentally cursing. 

He climbed out of his over- layers, hoping his sweat would dry a little before he finished; hair was still sticking to his forehead from being crammed under his hat, and his glasses had inevitably begun to cloud from the heat of his face. He took his glasses off and stuck them in the pocket of his shirt, which he hung up on the hanger provided for him. 

He got down to t-shirt and boxers, looked at himself in the gilt-framed mirror propped against the corner, and tried to determine whether that was enough. But his shirt was clinging to him uncomfortably, and his boxers were kind of grubby-looking. He really should have figured he'd be undressing for this, but it's not like he had fancy underwear he could have worn instead. And it's not like Hannibal gave a shit, right? Right. 

Even so, Will took them off, and the shirt. He stood there, examining himself for obvious flaws. He looked like himself. He looked like a guy in a jock strap. The label had come off the waistband ages ago, so it could have been any brand. There was no way that Hannibal would be able to tell it was for packing. 

That left his chest. The lighting was such that his scars would be cast in shadow, but Will had a vague mental picture of tailors being down on one knee while the client stood on a little raised dias or something. Maybe Hannibal would be too engrossed in the measuring to notice. Maybe he'd be thinking about something else. He certainly wouldn't be ogling Will on purpose. 

Will stepped out from behind the screen, feeling almost woozy with apprehension, with the sense that he was more naked right now than if he'd been entirely bare. 'Where do you want me?' he said. 

'Over here, please.' 

There was, as predicted, a little box to stand on, with two stairs leading up to it as if Will wouldn't be able to step that high on his own. Mirrors formed an angled crescent around the platform, showing sides of Will he never got to see. 

Hannibal set to work immediately, posing Will with gentle touches and requests, laying the smooth tape across more parts of Will's body than he'd known needed to be measured for something to fit. Every inch was recorded in a little leather book. Department store dress shirts came in a plastic pouch with your neck measurement printed on it, and that was pretty much it; fancier places sometimes went on chest circumference, as well. But Will mostly got his shirts from thrift stores, regular old mediums because a small would pull too tight across his shoulders when he played piano. They didn't fit like a glove, but they weren't designed to. 

Apparently, Hannibal's were. 

Eventually, Hannibal did kneel, as Will had imagined (more than once. God, he did not need to think about the _more than once_ right now, keep it together, it's important to relax). 'What side do you dress on?' said Hannibal. 

'Uh.' Will felt like he'd been asked a question in Martian. 

But Hannibal was obliging. He _always_ seemed obliging, and Will wondered if he was like that with everyone. You'd think people would walk all over a person like that, but somehow Will couldn't imagine anyone trying to manipulate Hannibal and succeeding. 

'What direction you arrange yourself in your trousers,' Hannibal clarified. 

'Oh. Um.' 

Will's packer was one of the cheapest on the market; at only thirteen dollars, it was the smallest size you could get that was proportionate for an adult. Will had always thought it was enough. He'd never felt like he was supposed to have a massive, swinging dick or something. That would be more of a hindrance than a help, in Will's opinion. No, his was small and discreet and didn't make any sudden movements. It seemed to suit him. It felt _honest_. 

'Kind of in the middle,' he said. 

Hannibal wrote something down in the book with the rest of it, then said, 'Stand with your thighs slightly apart, please. I need to take your inseam.' 

Will's heart drummed urgently in his chest, and he imagined that Hannibal would be able to feel it in his femoral artery when he next laid the tape, as conscious of Will's inner workings as if Will were a prosection laid out to be examined, but Will did as he was told. 

Hannibal barely seemed to touch him, only a slight point of pressure as he held the end of the tape at the join of Will's hip and thigh, and the soft presence of the material pulled nearly-taut down the inside of Will's leg to his ankle. 

'Thank you,' said Hannibal. 'The thigh next. Remain as you are.' 

The smooth slide of the tape measure circled each of Will's thighs in turn, and it was over as soon as it had begun. Will had clearly been worrying for nothing. It had only lasted a second. 

He almost wished it hadn't. 

Hannibal rolled the tape back into a neat little coil and placed it in its circular tin box. 'Done. Shall I write out a copy for your personal use?' 

'Alana said these should be for _your_ personal use,' said Will. 

'I see. Has she been encouraging you to take new steps in the sartorial world?' 

Will shrugged. 'She said she'd foot the bill for a couple suits, since I'm in the spotlight.' 

'That was generous of her.' Said the man who'd tipped Will a hundred bucks like it was nothing. 

'That was saving face,' Will pointed out. 'Everybody else looks sharp but me, it's about time she found a way to wrench me into line.' 

'In my experience, Alana is hardly forceful.' 

'No, but she's persistent. She'd be a thorn in my side about this for ages if I didn't take her up on it.' 

'I see.' Hannibal got to his feet again. 'Are you so reluctant to try something new, Will?' 

'I don't like change,' Will said, meeting Hannibal's eyes in one of the angled mirrors. Reflected in pairs, duplicate images of Hannibal and himself seemed to have gathered round to eavesdrop. 'I'm a simple man with simple tastes.' 

'Then we shall make you a simple suit,' said Hannibal. 'Not black, I think. Too harsh for your features. Perhaps something in midnight blue or a deep wine, with a few combinations of shirt and tie.' 

'That doesn't sound so bad.' Will had wondered if he'd end up with something flashy and patterned, like Hannibal's own clothes. It wouldn't have worked on him at all. 

'Alana will get what she wants, you will get what you need, and I,' said Hannibal with that same strange little smile in his eyes, 'will get the privilege of watching you wear what I have made for you.' 

Will could see the blush starting to bloom over his chest in the mirror, and turned away from his reflection, stepping down off the box. 'I'm cold,' he lied. 'Can I get dressed?' 

* * * 

Will went straight to the club from Hannibal's shop, sent on his way with the promise that the first suit would be complete before that coming Saturday evening's performance. For the Anniversary. 

Will had made a few tentative set list suggestions on the Morgue group chat, which were met with wholehearted support. Apparently Bedelia and Margot had been in almost non-stop communication about it all yesterday evening. 

For now, it was Monday, and not a particularly busy one. There were some regulars, a few after-work groups of people who just wanted a drink and were willing to try the place out, but nothing approaching the weekend crowds. The band jammed a lot on nights like this, sometimes holding conversations while they played, casual and comfortable with each other's abilities, enjoying the journey and any new tricks they might come up with for future use. Abigail had an evening class, so Katz was playing hostess. 

'If we want to give them something pretty to look at when they first walk in the door, we should put Jimmy up there,' she told Will during a lengthy intermission. People didn't dance on the early weekdays, just drink and talk, so the band had a lot more downtime. 

' _Gladly_ ,' said Jimmy, gesturing with a swizzle stick. 'If I mix one more cosmo tonight I'm going to start a revolution back here.' 

'They're not that bad,' said Zeller. 

'They're cranberry,' Jimmy protested. 'Cranberries _float_. That's the devil's work.' 

'A lot of things float,' said Katz. 

'Yeah,' said Jimmy, rolling his eyes. 'Like _witches._ ' 

'I'm sure none of the Mom Lesbians from the accounting firm are in league with Satan,' said Will. 

'You'd think that, wouldn't you?' Jimmy raised an eyebrow, pulling his best Vincent Price impression, which was actually pretty good. 'But I have seen evidence of their dark powers. One of them tipped me with a coupon.' 

Katz raised her eyebrows. 'For what?' 

'Fifteen percent off any deli item from Safeway.' 

She reached to root around in the tip jar. 'I'll take it.' 

Jimmy slid the jar away from her. 'Back off, it's mine.' 

Alana slid onto the stool next to Will. 'Did you go see him?' 

'See who?' said Zeller. 

'Hannibal,' said Will. 

'Who the fuck is Hannibal?' said Katz. 

'He's a tailor with a foreign title who used to be a shrink who used to be a surgeon,' said Will. 

'Wow,' said Jimmy. 'He's like the old woman who swallowed a fly, except with careers.' 

'Perhaps he'll die,' said Zeller, before going off to take someone's order at the other end of the bar. 

' _Perhaps_ he'll buy the Morgue when Jack retires,' said Alana. 'Which means we need to stay on his good side.' 

'Aren't you two friends?' said Will, frowning. He didn't mention that Hannibal had already said he was going to go through with it. 

'We are. That's how I know there's more than one side.' 

'I did go see him,' said Will. 'Yesterday.' 

'And?' 

'And he didn't apologize, per se. I think you made that part up.' 

'Apologize for what?' said Katz. 'The tip of the century?' 

'How much _did_ he give him?' Jimmy asked her behind his hand in a stage whisper. 

'Like enough for two really top-notch lap dances,' Katz whispered back, also behind her hand. 'Rhymes with "nundred".' 

'I'm not doing lap dances,' said Will, in a tone that indicated he was suffering over here. 'Or receiving them.' 

'Well, why not? Jack wants to diversify.' 

Zeller was back in the conversation. 'Not every gay bar is a writhing 1970s key party of wanton mustache-wearing debauchery.' 

Alana gave him a stern look. 'We're not a gay bar.' 

Jimmy snorted. ' _That's_ the part of that sentence you take issue with?' 

'Pedantry aside—' Zeller started. 

Katz and Jimmy interrupted him with a chorus of 'Never!' 

' _Pedantry aside_ ,' he repeated, 'Will, you really got a hundred dollar tip off this guy and you didn't leap into his arms immediately? I'm disappointed in you.' 

'He did drive me home,' Will confessed. Maybe somebody could make sense of what happened, because he certainly hadn't. 

Jimmy was listening with his chin in both hands, elbows on the bar. 'Oooh. Your home or his home?' 

'My home. I didn't want seven dogs' worth of piss on the floor, thanks.' 

'You gotta install a doggy door,' said Katz. 'Unexpected pee is a definite mood killer.' 

Will scrubbed a hand down his face. 'There wasn't a mood to kill. We had a tense conversation on the way there in his... his fuckin' _Batmobile_ or whatever, and—' 

'Whaaaat?' said Zeller. 

'He drives a Bentley,' Alana informed him. 

'Oh my god.' 

Will went on, '—and I cooked him breakfast and we sort of—' 

'Wait,' said Alana. 'You cooked Hannibal breakfast. You?' 

'Yes,' said Will. 

' _You_ cooked food for Hannibal and he ate it.' 

'Is there something weird about that? I'm not Typhoid Mary.' 

'That just... it doesn't happen.' 

Will rolled his eyes. 'Does he usually bring the royal food taster along to assess all fourteen courses for poison? Come on, he's a human being with a mouth and I made sure some potatoes and bacon ended up in it. You can't really go too far wrong with a potato.' 

Alana shook her head in wonder. 'You have no idea how wrong you are.' 

'I'm capable of making home fries without burning the house down.' 

'He's a chef,' Alana told him. 

Will stared in disbelief. 'Jesus Christ, how much time does this man _have_?' 

One of the trumpet players tapped Will on the shoulder. 'Go-Go's on the office line,' he said. 

Oh, shit. It was Monday night. Margot should be checked into inpatient by now. 

'I'll go with you,' said Alana. 'I want to tell her good luck.' 

'Can we go-go, too?' said Jimmy, who had spotted one of the accounting firm ladies on her way back to the bar. 'I sense impending cranberry.' 

'Suck it up and do your job, Mr Price,' said Alana over her shoulder as she and Will went off to the back. 

* * * 

_'Hey.'_ Margot sounded far away; it might have been the speakerphone, or just nerves. 

Will and Alana sat on either side of the desk, both leaned forward with their elbows on their knees to be nearer the mic. 

'Hey, Margot, it's Will.' 

_'I know what you sound like, dumbass.'_

He cracked a smile. 'I've made sure to line up a few eligible young ladies to shower you with gifts and affection as soon as you get back.' 

_'You'd better. Are they pretty?'_

'Gorgeous. They'll knock your socks off.' 

Alana gave him a fond look as he talked. 

'The boss is here, too,' Will said, not knowing how to carry the conversation. 

'Hi sweetheart,' said Alana. 'Are they treating you well?' 

_'I got some concerned questions about my injuries when I was putting on the little gown thing, but I'll live.'_

'That's my girl.' 

Will could almost hear Margot's small, hopeful smile on the other end of the line. _'You know it. How's Will been performing? Keeping his pecker up?'_

'I'm right here,' said Will. 

_'I'm asking her. Like hell do you have an accurate idea of your own abilities.'_

'You're too kind,' Will teased her. 

'He's a force of nature,' said Alana. 'Making a fuck load of tips, and I think half of them have phone numbers on the back.' 

_'Will! You sly dog.'_

'It's not like I'm going to call any of them,' Will reminded her. 

'He's hit it off with the prospective buyer, too.' 

_'Oooh. Hit it off like how big?'_

'Pretty big, I'd say.' 

_'So like, how big in inches?'_

'Again,' said Will, 'I am right here.' But he was smiling. 

_'Listen, they need to place and IV so I gotta go,'_ said Margot. _'I love you guys. Say hi to everybody for me.'_

'We will.' 

_'See you on the flipside. The No Balls side.'_

'Good luck!' said Alana. 

'We miss you,' said Will. 

When the call ended, they both sat there for a moment longer, looking at the phone. 

'They'd better be treating her like a fucking _princess_ ,' said Alana under her breath. 'Or I will end them.' 

Will acted as if he hadn't heard. 

* * * 

The week flew by. Bedelia came back in on Wednesday, her voice still a half-step lower than usual, but she was no longer sick. She and Will alternated vocals every set, and things started to feel a little more normal again. Will thought about Hannibal a lot, but didn't see him in the crowd all week, and didn't text him. Now that a few days had passed, such casual communication felt like an intrusion. 

Will's car had been declared a lost cause due to an inaccessible flaw in the head gasket, and he'd been begging rides off of whomever he could and repaying them with whatever they would accept (including singing in the car), occasionally even riding with regulars whom he'd known for years but never seen outside of work. He was going to have to deal with the transport situation eventually, but for now all he could do was wait for the first big paycheck to land. 

The weekend arrived, and so did Margot, having said on the phone that she definitely wanted to do the new numbers they'd sketched out for the big show, since she'd be back walking around reasonably well, and wanted to celebrate. For Friday night, however, she wanted to take it slow and ease back into it, and figure out blocking for the following night. 

Will's suit had been delivered to his house that afternoon by a private courier service, and it fit like a second skin. No need for a belt, hugging his waist and hips. He'd chosen the peacock blue shirt to go with it, tonight, and the tie was a deep blood red. It was like nothing Will had ever worn before, deliciously snug without restricting his movements, smooth fabric sliding against every inch of his body like a caress. 

He searched the crowd for Hannibal, and spotted him during Bedelia's second round. Will focused on playing expertly and bantering like a pro, cranking up the flirtation whenever he was on the mic, feeling like he needed to make up for lost time. Like he needed to remind Hannibal that Will wasn't all nerves and cranky awkwardness and ill-fitting clothes; that when the spots were on him, Will could shine. 

* * * 

Margot stepped out from behind the curtain into the circle of light, resplendent in a slinky black strapless gown alive with the wink of sequins. The only thing to break the smooth line of her silhouette was the black neoprene sling that held her right arm at a corresponding right angle. She'd made a slipcover for it of an iridesent blue fabric, but still, her usual gesture-heavy performance style would be lopsided tonight, and therefore tomorrow. 

After the applause died down, a regular called from the crowd, 'What's with the cast, baby doll?' 

'That's nothing!' Margot gave them a sly look. 'You should see the other ten guys.' 

Without waiting a beat, the band struck up the opening to her first number, effectively cutting off the line of questioning. Years of practice and experience had honed their timing to perfection, and when Margot glanced over at them as she readied herself for the first line, she looked grateful. 

Will caught Katz's eye at one point after the second song while Margot bantered with the band. _The fuck is this?_ Katz mouthed hugely so he could see, miming Margot's arm position and pointing heavily at it for emphasis. 

Will shrugged in response, trying to keep a frown off his face and his stage persona from slipping. Margot hadn't mentioned anything about an injury, and she'd come in late. What could have happened on the way home from Philadelphia that she neglected to mention? 

'Now, Will, honey,' said Margot, with a fluid gesture of her still-mobile arm, 'I hear you've been doing a little _songbird_ routine while I was away.' She turned back to the crowd. 'Are the rumors true? Did anybody hear those pipes?' Whistles and applause. 'Well, fuck me sideways. I didn't know you could sing!' 

'My mouth's good for a lot of things,' Will teased her back. 'You must have heard. What were you doing backstage for the last few hours, pressing on the sequins?' 

'Is _that_ what they're calling it these days?' A theatrical wink to the audience. 'Mr Graham, you terrible, terrible man! You _know_ I can't let you get away with this.' 

'Is that so?' Will had started a little meandering melody on the piano to accompany their cross-talk. 

'I'm wounded. I'm destroyed. I feel like I've been...' Margot laid a dramatic hand at the base of her throat, 'usurped!' 

Over-the-top gasps issued from the crowd. 

'Nobody could replace you, baby!' the band guys chimed in. 

'But another _queen_ has been sitting pretty on _my_ throne,' Margot went on. 'Stealing all the hearts. Those are supposed to be _mine_.' 

'Ain't nobody's like you, baby!' the band guys replied. 

'Maybe we can...' said Will, turning to the audience with a wicked grin, bouncing his eyebrows, ' _compromise_.' The improvised melody switched to a minor key in a flurry of notes, the upright bass joining in. 

'Oh, you know I don't _share_ , sugar,' said Margot. 

'You could sit on my lap.' 

_'Or his face!'_ a patron added helpfully from the audience. 

Margot tapped one finger against her lips, cocking a hip and looking contemplative. 'We-ell... maybe we can work something out, after all...' 

They followed with _You're the Boss_ , then renewed the mock argument before closing out the set with _Whatever Lola Wants,_ which included Margot standing behind Will, tipping his head back by his hair at a few key moments while he played, then leading him off at then end by his tie. 

They collapsed into breathless laughter in the wings as the applause blended into a raucous Katzenjammer track and talk started up again on the dance floor. 

'Oh my god, I've missed that! It's like a drug.' Margot wiped a tear of mirth from her false eyelashes. 'By the way, _damn_ , Will, that's one hell of a suit.' 

'Custom,' said Will, who hadn't been able to resist telling anybody who asked. 

'Somebody's landed a high-roller! What is he, a banker? Lawyer? Con man?' 

'Doctor,' said Will. 'Former. And I haven't landed anybody, Alana paid for this.' 

'Bloomers, spend money on a man? I'll believe it when I see it with my own two eyes.' 

Will opened a bottle of water for her and passed it over. 'So what happened? If you need me to corroborate your story, I will.' 

Margot's expression went distant, resigned. Will _knew_ that look. 'My brother.' 

'Jesus, Margot. When?' 

Margot shook her head. 'People can be bribed. Hospitals are staffed by people.' 

Will remembered the far-away quality of her voice over the phone. 'Was it before or after you called and talked to us?' 

'I'm going to act like you didn't ask me that.' 

'Alana will murder him,' Will pointed out. 

'God, Will, honestly? I don't want her to know. I don't want to drag her into the family shit pile.' 

'She cares about you. _I_ care about you. We all do. He can't just—he fucking _broke your arm_ , Margot. _While_ you were in the hospital. Now's the time to finally get the police involved.' 

She gave him a flat look. 'Is that your professional opinion, Detective Graham? The police force is staffed by people, too. How many of your former colleagues were on the take? Oh but this is _Baltimore_ , so take that number and multiply it by ten, and give it a gun that "accidentally" shoots whoever it wants.' 

Will smarted at that, but she was right. Someone with as much money and influence as her brother could probably drown a child in broad daylight and have it written off as an unfortunate tragedy in which he played no role whatsoever. 

'I hope he dies,' said Will, with feeling. 

'Same,' said Margot, somewhat less so. 

'Do you want to come stay with me? I mean, does he know where you live right now?' 

'I don't know,' she sighed. 'I've been thinking about asking—' 

Alana appeared, effectively ending that train of thought. 'Office please, princess,' she said, tipping her chin in its direction. 'Now.' 

Margot looked to Will, as always knowing just what to say to throw him off and lighten the mood in the face of the unknown. 'If you hear snarling, bestial noises from behind the door, that's me eating ass.' 

She went off with Alana, and the door shut behind them. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alana called Will into her office half an hour before opening.
> 
> 'Have you been doing sex work?' she said without preamble.
> 
> 'No,' he said, immediately tense. 'Are you?'
> 
> She looked perplexed. 'Why would you ask me that?'
> 
> Will made an impatient gesture. 'Why would you ask _me_ that?'

'I _knew_ it,' Jimmy hissed, eyes narrowed. 'That skeevy little pig-fondling Baptist _bastard_.' 

'Pig-fondling?' said Zeller. 

Jimmy huffed. 'I'm warming up, give me time.' 

They were huddled in the little kitchen behind the bottle wall: the trio of bartenders, Will, and Abigail. 

'How does he get away with this kind of thing?' Abigail said shakily, brows upturned, looking aghast and incredibly young. 'What sort of person would even...?' 

'Money,' said Katz flatly. 'Privilege. Rich white country-house boy grew up thinking he hung the moon, no boundaries, no consequences. The people who let him get away with it are the same kind of people he is.' 

'Well, _we're_ not,' said Zeller. ' _I'm_ not. I'm a gay Jew with a bartending license. Any thoughts on how and when to take him out?' 

'We can't,' Jimmy dropped his voice to a loud whisper through his teeth, ' _kill a guy_. God.' 

'Why not?' Zeller was clearly keeping the bulk of his anger tightly reined. 'We know he's tried to kill Margot! At _least_ twice. What's the score for attempted murder, Will?' 

'There was definitely direct action and intent to kill,' Will began. 

'Mmm, yeah, talk Law  & Order to me,' said Katz. 

'Two counts, plus the grab bag of aggravated assault? Might fetch him twenty at a lenient bench,' Will went on. 'But given the context of sustained abuse, maybe life.' 

'Right, right.' Zeller was looking at Will, fingers steepled in front of his mouth. 'And what would we get if we killed him with a hammer?' 

'We're _not_ killing him with a hammer,' said Will. 

'Who's getting hammered without me?' Margot was leaning against the door frame, back in street clothes but still in the sling. She held two little gift bags in her free hand and dangled them beckoningly in the air. 'Oh, Mr Jimmy Priiice, I have a present for you. And you too, Z.' 

They took the gift bags, both looking baffled. They were even more surprised when they fished out the tissue paper to reveal what was inside. 

'I'm... I'm honored,' said Jimmy, with reverence. He was holding a little glass jar, in which something eerie-looking was suspended in liquid. Bobbing up and down, it almost looked like an eyeball with a lot of connective junk coming out of the back, only there was no iris or pupil. 

Zeller held his own jar up to the light. 'God, they're _gorgeous_. Whose squiggle did you have to jiggle to get them to let you keep these?' 

'Not even a hint of jiggling,' Margot held up her hand. 'Dishonorably-discharged scout's honor.' Then she grinned. 'I told them it was for religious reasons.' 

'You pretended to have got religion, to gain access to human organs, _for us_ ,' said Jimmy, jokingly choked up but maybe a little choked up for real, too. 'You're a true friend and a heroine whose legend will be heralded in story and song.' 

Katz looked pretty impressed, as well. 'That _is_ the nicest thing anybody's ever done for these weirdos.' 

Margot waved a dismissive hand. 'I figured, hey, I know a couple of nutbags who could keep them safe and warm for me. Couldn't bear the thought of them getting cremated or whatever it is they do with that shit.' 

'Genuine girl balls,' said Zeller, still gazing at the jar in wonder. 

'Be warned: if you tickle them, I _will_ feel it on the astral plane.' Margot poked Will in the arm. 'You coming or what?' 

Will blinked. 'Huh?' 

'I called us a cab, I've decided to crash at your place.' 

It was the way she said it that tipped him off. 'Doctor Bloom's orders?' 

'It was either that, Katz's sister's snoring, or the testicle twins,' said Margot with a laugh. 'Anyway, you live out in the asshole of nowhere, and you own a shotgun. The odds are good that I'll sleep tonight.' 

Abigail, who had mostly been observing the conversation, stepped in and hugged Margot goodnight, careful of her arm. 'Will's good at helping people feel safe,' she told her. 

Margot nodded. 'He's like a bank vault.' 

* * * 

Will let Margot take the bed. 

Correction: _tried_. 

'Are you serious?' she said as Will got out a spare blanket and tossed it onto his armchair. 'You're going to sleep in _that_?' 

'I like this chair.' 

'You won't in the morning.' 

'You know, in medieval times people used to sleep sitting up,' said Will. 'They thought it was better for you.' 

'For real?' Margot said mock-brightly, then sounded her usual wry self again. 'Very chivalrous, Sir Will. I got a little tingle in my ivory tower. For the record, they also _joust_ at Medieval Times, but I don't see you waving your lance around in a family-friendly restaurant. Get the fuck in, you idiot.' 

'You're still healing,' Will protested. 

'Below the waist, I'll be healing for about a month. And you won't _sleep_ for about that long if you're trying to do it a La-Z-Boy from 1974. Where in Christ's gaping holes do you buy your furniture? Even Goodwill would take it out back and shoot it.' 

Will climbed into bed behind her, and she scooted back against him, filling the space with warmth. 

'There,' said Will. 'Happy?' 

Margot hummed. 'Yes.' 

'You done flogging my furniture to death?' 

'It looked post-mortem when I started.' 

' _Ha_.' Will paused. 'I flail in my sleep.' 

'I remember,' said Margot. She reached behind herself and patted him on the side of the leg as if to reassure him, one-two, then moved her hand away. 

'I don't want to hurt you,' said Will. 

'You're one of the few people who's _not_ capable of hurting me,' Margot pointed out, jabbing the pillow into shape under her head. 

Will huffed a bitter laugh. 'Am I really that harmless?' To everyone but himself. 

'No, it's that I know you'll look out for me.' 

'Of course.' 

'Because,' she paused to yawn, 'you know that if you _don't_ ,' she went on sleepily, 'I'll sew a cock onto you just so I can lop it off with an axe.' 

Will smiled despite himself. 'Sweet dreams, Margot.' 

* * * 

Will checked his phone when they woke up late the following morning. He had a text. 

_You looked breathtaking last night._

Will got out of bed, let the dogs out and then back in, tried to determine whether he had enough food in the house for the day or if he'd have to go into town. In... another cab. Shit. 

'Hi,' said Margot from the doorway, voice croaky from sleep. Her hair was scrunched up oddly on the side of her head she'd been laying on all night, unable to turn the other way without putting pressure on her broken arm. 'Big night tonight.' 

'Yep,' said Will. 'You want a sweater or something?' 

Margot looked muzzily down at herself, in just panties, then back up at Will. 'Nah, I'm good. You're like a fuckin' radiator in bed, you know that, right?' 

'Out of date, high maintenance, tendency to make horrible noises? I may have been informed, yeah.' 

Honestly, Will was just surprised he'd slept so soundly that he'd not only received texts without the alert waking him up, but that Margot had tangoed out of the pajamas he'd lent her without him noticing the movement at all. 

'Oh, thank god,' Margot said, spotting the French press and starting to scoop coffee into it. 'Sweet, sweet nectar of life.' 

'Do you have any meds you need to take for post-op?' said Will, leaning back against the edge of the counter. 

'Already took 'em.' 

'You need any dressings changed, I can help. I know the angle must be awkward.' 

Margot shot him an amused look through her curtain of bed-head. 'That's one I haven't heard before.' 

'Easy, tiger.' Will looked at Hannibal's text again, then set his phone down. Coffee. Coffee and food. Do not attempt to communicate with devastatingly intelligent people before coffee and food. 'We need to pick up stuff for you today, right?' 

'We can grab it tonight after work if it's easier, but yeah. I can throw together a tote box or whatever and you can drive my car back here since I'm the one-armed wonder. Alana insisted I camp out until something can be done about the,' she stopped just a moment longer than was needed for her to take a breath, 'family drama.' 

'Did she say why you weren't going to stay with her, instead?' 

Margot rolled her eyes at him. 'Because, genius, that would ruin the _game_.' 

'What game is that?' 

'The "dancing around the fact that we want to fuck each other's brains out" game.' 

'Sounds exhausting. Why not just go ahead, if you both want to and you both know it?' 

Margot actually turned, held both sides of Will's head, and looked him in the eye. 'Because we're _women_ ,' she said, unnecessarily slowly. She released him and went back to preparing the coffee. Down on the floor, Buster was following her every move, nearly explosive with delight at the fact that Will had had two guests in as many weeks. 'I mean, seriously?' Margot went on. 'Girls don't generally have a quick, nasty fuck in a bathroom stall or whatever, when it's with other girls.' 

'Jesus,' said Will. 'So what kind of sex do you assume I'm having?' 

Margot considered this. 'Neither,' she said. 

Will was surprised into a laugh. 'Caustic.' 

'True, though.' 

'You're not wrong,' Will sighed. 'We can go to the Silver Diner for breakfast. Unless you want to share a bowl of plain spaghetti.' 

'Diner it is.' 

* * * 

Alana called Will into her office half an hour before opening. 

'Have you been doing sex work?' she said without preamble. 

'No,' he said, immediately tense. 'Are you?' 

She looked perplexed. 'Why would you ask me that?' 

Will made an impatient gesture. 'Why would you ask _me_ that?' 

Alana held up a finger for him to give her a moment, choosing her words. 'In fairness,' she started, then trailed off. 'Yeah, no, I got nothing. This came for you.' She slid a box across the desk to him. 

'What is it?' The box had clearly been untaped and then artfully re-taped again. 

'Do I look like the kind of person who would open an employee's mail, when they obviously had it addressed to their place of business for some reason, probably to do with safety?' 

'Yes,' said Will. 

'It's a watch.' 

Will opened the box, and then the flat leather case inside it. 

Oh. 

'Oh, dear god, no,' he said, snapping the case shut as if its contents had burned him, dropping it back into the cardboard box it had arrived in and shoving it back across the desk. 'That's not a watch, that's a big neon sign that says _Mug Me, I'm Stupid!_ ' 

'I _had_ thought it was a little spendy for you,' Alana reasoned. 

'A little, Alana? A _little_ spendy? It's a wearable mortgage.' 

They both stared at the box. 

'Pretty, though,' said Alana. 'Nice suit, if I hadn't said already.' 

'Thanks, it's the same one from yesterday with a different shirt, because apparently it's all right to re-wear a suit ad infinitum like a pair of jeans,' said Will, 'until the day it stands up and walks away on its own. Then you'll have to buy me another one.' 

Alana pinched the bridge of her nose. 'You can just say "thank you" to compliments, Will, it won't kill you.' 

'That watch would kill me. It's counting down the minutes until my untimely demise at the hands of unknown assailants behind the Aldi off Pulaski.' 

Alana made a considering noise. 'Didn't know you were an Aldi man.' 

'Safeway's produce is almost insultingly overpriced.' 

A beat. They listened to the tick of the clock. 

'Well,' Alana said, 'if you don't want it, we can give it to Jack as a retirement present.' 

This sounded like a sensible plan. No one with a scrap of primal mammalian self-preservation would attempt to mug Jack. 

'Does it even say who sent the damn thing?' 

'Nope.' 

'No card?' 

'It was delivered by an expensive private courier service. Their uniforms don't even have a logo.' Alana wiggled her fingers. 'Swanky.' 

'Wait a second,' said Will. 'Why exactly did you ask if I'd been doing sex work?' 

'Because no one here in their right mind would sell eight hundred kidneys on the black market for a fucking wrist watch,' Alana said, which was true. 'And I _know_ you don't talk to people outside of work in a way that might inspire extravagant gifts. Usually—and I say "usually" because I try to encourage your potential to grow as a person—you approach talking to strangers with about the same _joie de vivre_ most people feel when thinking about mosquitos. And,' she added, 'you've been walking a little funny this week. Assumptions were made.' 

'I banged my knee climbing out of a customer's car,' said Will. 

'Right,' said Alana. 

'A customer from here,' Will clarified, 'who drove me home. From here. Because my car is dead.' 

'Ri-ight.' 

'His name's Kevin and he's been getting Old Fashioneds from Jimmy for ten years.' 

'Oh! _Our_ Kevin. Well, that's fine.' 

Will gave her a long look. 'Just so we're clear, I did not fuck Kevin. He literally just drove me home.' 

'And you don't have any secret, new, filthy rich friends that you haven't thought to mention to us?' 

'Nope,' said Will, then realized that wasn't entirely true. 'I mean there's, uh. There's _Hannibal_. But.' 

Alana's eyes grew fractionally wider. 'Really.' 

'Um,' said Will, leading nowhere. 

'Do you think Hannibal would buy you a rose gold Rolex?' 

'If he did, he should probably see a personal finance advisor and get some help with that kind of bug-fuck ridiculous reckless spending,' said Will. 'I go ice fishing, Alana. I take apart a boat motor on a regular basis. I have seven dogs, one of whom has usually pissed himself by the time I get him out the door. What the hell could a person like me do with something like this? It's like buying a hamster a space shuttle. There's no logic to it at all.' 

'Hmm,' said Alana. 

'Oh, no. You've got a look on your face.' 

'What if there _is_ logic to it? Tonight of all nights.' 

Will laughed. 'Seems like a cry for help either way. "Free me from my golden prison of hedonism and vapid material luxury" is pretty much the only conclusion that can be drawn from someone giving this to a guy who _bangs his hands around pretty fast_ _across a hard surface_ for a living.' 

'Wear it,' said Alana, sitting back in her chair and crossing one leg over the other, watching Will. 

'I mean, I'm—sorry, _what_?' 

'Wear it. Put it on, here—' 

Will reared back like it might bite him. 

'Just...' Alana wrestled Will's wrist to the desk and slid the watch onto it, fastening the clasp shut. ' _There_.' 

Will looked down at it. Looked at the play of light across its details, the way the watch seemed to shine with its own warm illumination (as opposed to Will's own watch, which was Indiglo™). The way the color looked against his shirt and jacket cuffs. The weight and pressure of the watch's case body, comfortable but insistent against Will's wrist, like someone rubbing their thumb there. Like how Hannibal's own thumb pressed gently against the backs of Will's fingers when Hannibal took his hand and would bow over it, nearly brush his lips against it but never doing so. 

With the suit, it didn't look ostentatious at all. It looked like it _belonged_. Like it was already Will's. 

It looked _honest_. 

'Oh, wow,' he whispered. 

'It looks amazing on you,' said Alana. 

'Yeah,' said Will, because she was right. 

'At least try it for one set.' 

'I'm afraid I'll break it,' said Will softly. 

'If you break it, he still bought it. That means that my old friend Hannibal Lecter is an extremely generous _idiot_ , but again, not your responsibility.' 

'It's a big night, though,' said Will. 'We have a challenging set list. What if it slows me down? This thing is heavy.' 

'Then take it off if it does, Will. Just give it a chance. Who knows? Maybe it'll be your lucky penny tonight.' 

Will took an oddly difficult breath. 'If you say so, boss.' 

* * * 

The club was packed, standing room only, when it went dark. There were a few nervous laughs, rapidly hushed conversations in the audience. The band took their places; Bedelia and Margot stood at the tall mic, dressed in white and black. Will waited in the wings for his cue. 

This was the Anniversary of the Fire. 

Red light dawned as the clarinet softly fluttered. Will waited for a particular note, took a steadying breath, and stepped out onto the stage as the creeping red light flashed white and harsh with the spots, one on him, one on the ladies. The latter leaned back with expressions of pantomime shock, and Will sat down at the piano. 

The first sound to pass through his mic was laughter, as low as he could get it, arcing higher and then higher than he usually dared admit he could go, maniacal and chilling. Cymbals hissed, and then crashed. The stage went black. 

Silence. 

Lights. 

The guitar began to strum in ceaseless, apprehensive repetition. The trumpet _screamed._ Will placed his fingers on the keys and sang. 

_In the afterlife_

_You could be headed for the serious strife_

_Now you make the scene all day_

_But tomorrow there'll be Hell to pay_

The ladies echoed the verse in unison. The drummer, bassist and guitarist lent their voices as well, slightly discordant, half-shouted and unamplified. Will nearly looked out into the audience to see how it was going over, to see if a particular patron was watching, but he resisted. Focus. It's important to relax. 

_People, listen attentively:_

_I mean about future calamity_

_I used to think the idea was obsolete_

_Until I heard the old man stampin' his feet_

Will laid into the piano with as much energy as he had, not worried about the watch, now, not worried about anything. 

_This is a place where eternally_

_Fire is applied to the body_

_Teeth are extruded and bones are ground_

_Then baked into cakes which are passed around_

The unsettling chorus rose again, Margot and Bedelia exchanging fearful looks, peering out over the footlights as if seeking an escape. When the horn solo came, Will leapt up from the bench and chased them in slow motion from one side of the stage to the other, always just out of reach, then slid back into position in time to reach his mic for the next verse, growling his way into the first line. 

_Beauty, talent, fame, money_

_Refinement, top skill and brain_

_But all the things you try to hide_

_Will be revealed on the other side!_

In the next chorus, Will shouted over a few lines, unnerving nonsense as the ladies crossed themselves and made praying hands. 

_Now the D, and the A, and the M, and the N_

_And the A, and the T, and the I-O-N_

_Lose your face, lose your name_

_Then get fitted for a suit of flame!_

Margot looked from one side to the other, sneakily, while Bedelia had her eyes closed and hands clutched before her in prayer; she slid a rubber prop knife from inside her sling, gave the audience a big cheeky wink and momentarily blocked Bedelia from view, then made her way over to Will's side of the stage, stripping off her long black glove with her teeth as she danced across to meet the devil, revealing she was red-handed. 

_Now the D, and the A, and the M, and the N_

_And the A, and the T, and the I-O-N_

Bedelia's eyes snapped open, hands moving to reveal a red lipstick gash across her throat. Crimson cloth burst from beneath her fingers like blood, spurting to the edge of the stage and into the audience below. They picked up the silk scarf over their heads and it started to pass over the crowd, everyone reaching to touch it, to feel it. 

_Lose your face, lose your name_

_Then get fitted for a suit of flaaaame!_

The horns wailed, breaking off into frantic tangents and converging again as Bedelia crumpled to her knees, the drums crashed, and the stage went black on the final beat. 

Applause and hollering rushed in and filled the space before silence ever had a chance. The lights came up again slowly, to reveal that Margot was sitting (gingerly) in Will's lap on the piano bench, now wearing a little devil horns headband. 

'Thank you, everybody!' she said into the mic atop the piano, kicking her feet a little, having to raise her voice over the commotion. 'There are those in this world who would wish us _fucking dead_ on this beautiful evening, but we have an escape hatch! Welcome to the Beau Morgue! Welcome... to _Curse Night!'_

* * * 

The evening was spent in celebration and mourning. Jack and Bella showed up about halfway through to take in the festivities, and Bella came up onstage to perform the customary recitation of the names of the curse's victims, when and how they had died, in a soft voice with only strings accompanying her. 

There was an impromptu swing showdown on the dance floor during the third set, where two rival couples continuously one-upped each other until it was clear to all that they were both equally dazzling to watch, and switched partners effortlessly. An unusual number of goths were among the assembly, one of whom had a pet raven on her shoulder the entire night. Will Graham and his Theological Accident played upbeat, irreverent renditions of some of the more dour jazz standards— _Solitude, Gloomy Sunday_ —as well as a few chilling old hymns like _Wade in the Water_ , kept at their original speed and orchestration. Bedelia did _I Put A Spell On You_ ; Margot followed with a jubilant version of Eartha Kitt's _I'd Rather Be Burned As A Witch_. 

The last set was almost exclusively Tom Waits and Jason Webley numbers, Will and Margot competing to see who could wail the hardest: _Down, Down, Down; God's Away on Business; Devil Be Good; The Graveyard;_ and, as was tradition, they closed out the Curse Night with _Come On Up to the House._ A few grown men in the audience were crying by the end of it, moved with emotion—it was that kind of song, that kind of night. It had always been that kind of place. 

Will was worn out by last call at two AM, and didn't want to wade through the still-partying crush of people to talk to anyone. He leaned against the wall in the dimly-lit passage just off the stage, drinking water, while everyone else went out to mingle and to toast the Dragos and the dead. 

'My god,' said a stranger, 'it really _is_ you. Detective Graham.' 

Will looked up, frowning, an acid feeling of dread in the back of his throat. 'You're not supposed to be back here,' he said. 

The woman ignored that. She was more petite than Will had ever thought someone could be without blowing away, with coral lipstick and a loud jacket, red curls like a cloud of blood around her head in the dark of the hall. Her eyes were alert and piercing, and it was clear to Will that she was almost offensively sober. 

'My name's Freddie Lounds. I'm doing a retrospective on the Drago's Curse.' She stuck out her hand for Will to shake it, but he didn't. She let it hang for a moment, then dropped it. 'I had no _idea_ two such disparate Will Grahams were one in the same.' 

It was clear she'd known, was damn pleased with herself, and was hoping Will would deny it so that she could corner him, catch him in a lie. 

Will fucking _hated_ that tactic. 

'Look, I don't mean to be rude,' said Will, 'but I've just wrapped up about seven hours of—essentially—screaming and waving my arms around.' He gave her a long, emotionless stare. 'What is it that you want?' 

She shrugged. 'I thought it would be interesting to speak to you on the matter, _Mister_ Graham, seeing as you've had such a _close_ relationship with death.' 

'Leave,' said Will. 'I don't want to talk to you.' 

'Sure, sure. I'd hate to make you uncomfortable, I hear you're a very sensitive man. Just tell me, Mr Graham, did you know that the FBI has an active file on you?' 

Will kept his expression purposefully blank. 'Now, why would they have a thing like that?' Deliberately obtuse. Get her to tip her hand. 'I'm just a piano player.' 

'It _seems_ that there was a certain amount of suspicion surrounding the circumstances that inspired you to quit the police force,' said Lounds. 'And yet, despite that very suspicion, the FBI wanted to recruit you for the BAU. And then, years later after repeatedly spurning their advances, you went and did a little _favor_ for them in the Midwest. Seems like there's a story there.' 

'Is _that_ what it seems like?' said Will, snappish and already long done with this conversation. 'I was relieved of my duties due to being near-fatally injured in the field. Watching yourself bleed to death has a tendency to take the shine off of things. And I don't _do_ favors.' He turned away, to walk out, to barricade himself in the office if necessary. Anything to get away. But the secret passage had been turned into this very hallway. No more bolt-holes here. 

'When you shot that man, did you feel like you were seeing the scene from outside your body?' Lounds pressed. 'Did you have a dissociative episode like when you killed—' 

Will whirled back around. 'I have nothing. More. To say to you. _Get out of my house._ ' 

He left through the side door, slamming it, ducked into the alley, and walked. 

He didn't have his coat on. He immediately felt like a coward for not... not _what_ , driving her out by force, snicking her ankles with a broom handle the whole way out? Jesus. This was stupid. She was just some nosy reporter, it's not like it was the first time Will had had to deal with that. 

It was, however, the first time that one had known who he'd been before. The sound of the nasty emphasis, the skeptical topspin Lounds put on _Mister_ kept playing in a loop in his mind, scraping like knives against his nerves. 

Tonight was supposed to be a night of community and to honor the dead. Now Will felt deeply alone, felt his dead self sliding into view, and there was no one to mourn for him. 

And now he was fucking cold on top of it. 

Stupid. 

He turned around, but now he was walking against the wind, which stung his face and made his eyes water and scrunch closed. It was much slower going, and he cursed Freddie Lounds the whole way. Will entertained a few ideas about what might make him feel better, even though he knew that if they happened in real life, he'd feel terrible about it. He hoped she died. He hoped she caught fire in some freak tragedy. 

He made it back to the stage door, found it slightly ajar, and jerked it open. 

'Whoa, don't shoot!' Margot had been leaning up to the crack in the door, smoking one of her black cigarettes but trying to keep out of the wind. 'Oh, thank god, it's just you. Did that Lounds woman get to you, too?' 

'Apparently she thinks she can pry a story out of me by insinuating that she'll out me to the press,' said Will. 'Whatever fuckin' rag she's a part of.' 

' _Tattle Crime_ ,' said Margot, rolling her eyes. She handed Will a cigarette and he took it without a word, joining her against the gap in the door as Margot lit his off of hers. 'They do grisly murder shit, it's real exploitative.' 

Will hoped that one of the killers Lounds salivated over found her, plucked her out of the herd for being just a complete piece of shit to everyone. He hoped they would do what Will would never admit that he thought about doing. 

He took an experimental draw on the clove; it had been a long time. The sweet numbness filled his mouth, soothing his tired throat. 'Aren't all reports, on that sort of thing?' 

'It's straight-up yellow journalism, is what it is,' said Margot, expelling a long, sweet drag of smoke. 'It digs at people, tears them up. Gets into their insides with a garden rake and just _churns_.' 

Will huffed. 'Imagine having a job where all you do is stir the pot. What a life.' 

They smoked in silence for a couple minutes. They could hear friends calling farewell out in the bar, bus boys making their final rounds, starting to put up chairs. Will could hear Alana's clear, silvery laugh over the noise, and Aunt Basie saying something he couldn't make out, her voice followed by—unmistakably—Hannibal's. 

'What's she got on you, Will?' Margot was saying. 

'Hmm?' 

'Tattle Tits. What's she _really_ got on you? I mean like, listen, _so what_ if she outs you? It's a different climate for trans people in the media, now. It might ruffle some feathers and be embarrassing for awhile if you had some kind of master plan to be stealth forever, but she'd probably catch hell for it. She'll catch a lot more hell than you will.' Margot flicked her dead filter out into the wind, noticed Will wasn't paying much attention to his smoke, and took it from him to polish it off. 'No reporter for a shitty crime blog would just, you know, go around ravening for trans people to devour. There's got to be another angle.' 

'She was _needling_ me,' said Will tightly. 'She was just using the gender stuff to burst the dam.' 

'So what is it? What are you damming up that she thinks is so important?' 

Will squinted out into the narrow slice of dark for a long moment, long enough that Margot probably assumed he wasn't going to answer her. 

* * * 

Dr Bloom's office was in a shopping center in a town twenty minutes from Quantico, between a dry cleaner's and a take-away pizza joint. There was a little waiting room with a little desk and Venetian blinds. A white noise machine hissed in one corner like air escaping a perpetual balloon. 

It was the first time Will had been to therapy—actual therapy, not just _so why are you here?_ —since he'd started transitioning. The GP he went to at a little clinic in Oakton had accepted the New Orleans Police Department's closing assessment at face value, and agreed to allow Will hormome replacement therapy on the condition that he found and established care with a competent therapist. Will had left with a prescription that day, but it had taken nearly eight months and a lot of grueling, failed intake appointments to find a therapist that didn't look at him like an insect pinned under glass. 

'Hi, Will,' said Alana. There was a couch in the office proper, but she was on it, not Will; he sat in an armchair opposite. 

'Is this positioning supposed to give me a sense of agency?' he asked. 

'It can. You're the one who chose where to sit when we walked in.' 

Will dropped it. 'So we're clear, I'm not here to talk details about the cases I work,' he said, getting it out of the way immediately. ' _Worked_.' 

'I understand you had a difficult time.' 

Will made a noise in the back of his throat. 'Law enforcement in the Deep South? Not the ideal environment for realizing you're trans, yeah.' 

'Are you here because of that?' 

'Condition of continuing to be allowed medication.' 

Alana nodded. 'That rubs you the wrong way. The gatekeeping. Others deciding when and how your self is permitted to manifest, often by way of paths that seem arbitrary.' 

'That's one word for it.' 

A few moments passed. 

'You indicated on your forms that you struggle with empathy. In what direction would you say you're struggling?' 

'You mean towards or against?' 

'Whatever defines it best.' 

'Definitely against,' said Will. He didn't know what to do with his hands, kept having to resist pushing his hair back over and over. 'I feel too much.' 

'Who decides what's too much?' 

'When I feel like I've literally stepped into the body of a killer to experience his crimes through his eyes, I'd say that's about the point where it ceases to be precisely comfortable.' 

Alana took notes in a flip-top Moleskine. Will was glad she wasn't one of those therapists who recorded sessions; his voice sounded so high on recordings. 'Did that happen often?' 

'Still does.' 

Alana frowned, barely noticeably, when she looked back up at him. 'And what do you do when that happens?' 

Will took a moment to breathe before answering. 'Close my eyes,' he said. 'This... I don't know, this feeling washes over me, like the _me_ in there is being wiped out like a bowl. Clean and empty until it can hold another person perfectly, without spilling a drop. Then I'm there.' He swallowed. 'Inside them. Their eyes are mine, their thoughts. Or I'm theirs. I see all the steps, the reasons, the past that drove them there, by desperation or by powerlessness that felt like the crack of a whip at their backs. I feel what they're doing, and I feel that it's right. Even loathsome things,' he said. 'Even the worst things.' 

'Do you feel like repeated instances of this, in the case of male offenders, has influenced your gender and sexual experience?' 

He wished he was everything they _weren't_. 'It's a concept I've given some thought.' 

Alana considered this, and circled something on her notes. 'Yet even knowing these things,' she said, 'even after the red flags on the routine psych evaluations you were given by the department, you were contacted by someone at Quantico who wanted to push you further in that direction.' 

Will's jaw was tight. 'They wanted me to teach. Figured I was the best fit for it.' 

'To explain to future agents how the story unfolds,' said Alana. 

'Yes.' 

'Why didn't you wish to tell them?' 

He sighed, rubbed his hands idly over his knees. 'I didn't want a good kid to end up like I did. With... whatever this is. That I do.' 

'Were you a good kid?' 

'Gatekeeping,' he said simply. Alana seemed to know what he meant, which was a relief. 

'What sort of stories do you tell yourself, Will?' 

His eyes narrowed a little. 'I don't follow.' 

'The personal narrative is very important, and can often give us answers if we know where to look. For example, do you feel like there are elements of your life that would continue, and feel valuable to you, if no other people existed?' 

'The world would be quiet,' said Will. 'Wild and tangled, thick with vines. I'd probably sleep.' If, in this scenario, the old nightmares didn't plague him. 

'Who would you be, without the continued influence of others? What foundation would remain?' 

'I don't know if there is one,' said Will. 

'Humor me.' 

'My dogs,' said Will. 'Four of them, at the moment.' 

'Four,' Alana repeated, the way people did. 

'I know, I know.' 

'It's just that four dogs is a lot of work for someone who seems so tired,' said Alana. 

Will shrugged. 'Four dogs are easier to handle than one person.' 

'So you'd have your dogs. Probably more, eventually. What else?' 

'I like fishing. I make lures from stuff I find in the fields.' He paused, in thought, scrambling to think of some key feature of his life that didn't involve how his mind worked. 'I have a piano.' 

'How long have you played?' 

'Since I was about eleven or twelve. A lady in the trailer park we lived in for awhile had a double-wide, with an old Steinway upright in the dining room instead of a table to eat at.' He rubbed the back of his neck. 'My dad forgot about me for awhile. Took some job, didn't come home. I went over to her house because she'd feed me.' 

'Did she teach you how to play?' 

Will was glad Alana hadn't changed the subject as soon as he introduced a childhood issue. Some therapists will drop everything the second you mention early trauma, laser-focus on it until you never want to hear about it again. 'As best she could. She was getting arthritis, so she'd point at the right keys with the handle of this wooden spoon, telling me what the notes were and when to play them. I couldn't figure out sheet music to save my life. She was patient. Eventually, I could play along with her records.' 

'What sort of genres were they?' 

'Jazz,' said Will. 'Blues. A little ragtime.' 

'Ragtime's some complex stuff! I can barely wrap my head around listening to it.' 

Will let himself smile a little. 'I never said I was any _good_ at it. Just that I kept doing it.' 

'What happened to her? Your Mrs Steinway.' 

'My dad came back. We left, didn't see her again.' 

Alana nodded. 'But you kept playing.' 

'A few moves later there was a music store a couple miles from school. I practiced there in the afternoons so I wouldn't go home to an empty apartment, motel room, whatever it was that month.' Will noticed the tension in his posture had eased somewhat, at some point while they'd been talking. 'I'd drive the guy at the store nuts, doing the same song over and over.' 

'What song?' 

Will wanted to evade the question, but met her halfway. 'It had my name in it.' 

Their next session was much the same. Wandering tightropes stretched between the past and present. Will got used to it, so used to the abrasion of honesty that he worried it would be taken away. 

'Would you try something for me, Will?' said Alana, at the end of a session about two months into Will seeing her. 

'I can't promise anything.' 

'Whenever you feel the blade come down to scrape you out,' Alana told him, 'whenever you feel like you're going to that place where you're just a vessel for others' deeds, I want you to turn to music.' 

'What, like switch on the radio?' 

'If you like,' said Alana. 'But I was thinking something like sitting down at your piano. Tapping out a little beat on the steering wheel while you're driving. Sing to yourself under your breath, even in your head.' 

Will smiled a little, looking away, remembering. 'Mrs Steinway used to tell me that evil spirits can't abide music. That when she crossed into an unholy place, she'd sing, and she'd know she was safe.' 

Alana followed up on that at their next session. 

'Have you been turning to music this week, Will?' 

'I have, yeah.' He was sitting on the couch, this time, but so was Alana. Each at either end, three-quarter turned to face each other with one elbow propped against the backrest. 

Alana smiled. 'Met any evil spirits?' 

Will shook his head with a breath of a laugh, looking down, picking at a loose bit of stitching on the edge of his jacket. 'Not a one. When I'm making music, there's no room for them. No room for anyone other than the song. I feel its personality, I know what it wants. What it needs. Like instead of it filling me, taking me over, I'm filling it.' 

'You're no longer the bowl,' said Alana. 

'A Klein bottle,' Will said. 'Have you seen them? Impossible things. Blown glass inverted on itself, pouring and pouring. Never empty, never full, always in-between. Satisfied.' 

'You have such a compelling way of speaking, Will,' she told him. 'It's almost poetry, reminds me a little of Walt Whitman's style. Where does that come from?' 

'I don't know,' said Will. 'I'm not a big poetry reader.' 

'Would you say that you've always spoken in this way, or was there a clear beginning?' 

Will looked at his hands, then looked at her hands. Pen not poised to jot down assumptions, just resting in her hand for the time being. Waiting. Accepting. 

'I only noticed after I'd killed someone,' he said. 

* * * 

'You've _killed_ someone?' Margot repeated. 

'Yeah.' 

'Like... _killed_ them killed them?' 

'You can't _sorta_ kill someone,' Will retorted. 

'I mean like, while doing cop stuff, or what?' 

'Cop stuff,' said Will. ' _And_ or what.' 

* * * 

'How was Minnesota, Will?' 

It had been several eventful weeks since they'd seen each other. No longer was there a little office between a pizza place and a dry cleaner's, but that had been for some years now. Alana's office was stacked with old records, the sound system used during intermissions, and in the corner a sparkly top-hat and black cane hung from a coat rack. 

'Surgical,' said Will. 

'Are you happy with your results?' 

'Don't know yet, I'm not healed up that far. Only just got the drains out before I came home, but.' He straightened his posture a little, despite the ache. 'I feel relieved.' 

'If you ever want corrections,' said Alana, leaving the rest of the offer hanging in the air. She'd mentioned knowing surgeons, before. 

'I shot a man to death,' said Will. 

Alana looked at him, scanning his face. 'In Minnesota,' she said. 

'Yes.' 

She tried to cast her mind back, old conversations, unsolved cases Will had written papers on, cases the BAU had asked him to consult on temporarily, though he always refused. What had been in the papers the previous week. 'The Shrike.' 

Will nodded. 

'How?' 

'With bullets,' said Will, wryly. 

'How did you find him? How did you even know where he would be?' 

Will closed his eyes, seeming weary. 'I was driving through Bloomington,' he said. 'Trying to find my hotel. The leaves were vivid, splattered red across the ground, blowing. There was a construction detour that took me through a neighborhood, and I saw a girl.' 

Alana almost wished she still had her flip-top notebook, but resisted the old habit of taking notes. Those days were gone. 'A girl.' 

'She had this leather shoulder bag. You could tell it was soft, even from a distance. Visible stitching, clearly handmade.' 

'Skin,' said Alana. 

'She looked _just like them_ , Alana,' said Will, speaking around a lump in his throat. 'The dead girls.' He halted, not sure if he wanted to go on. 'She looked...' His voice dropped so soft it was hard to hear. 'She looked just like how I used to.' He took a breath, let it out. 'The dead girl.' 

Alana waited a moment before she replied. 

'You followed her.' 

'I knew it was her father. I could _see_ it on her.' 

'Will, you didn't—' 

'I asked for directions,' he said. 'She couldn't remember the cross-street for the hotel, and her phone had died during her walk back from a friend's house. Said she could ask her dad, the house was right around the corner.' 

'Whose gun?' said Alana. 

'Disarmed him,' said Will. 'But he went for a knife. Couldn't save her mother.' He ran his hand through his hair, pushing it back once, twice. 'I saved her.' 

'They kept your name out of the media,' said Alana. Thank god. 

'The agents who showed up said I was working with them.' 

'You weren't.' 

'Obviously.' 

'That's kind of illegal,' said Alana. 

'So is shooting a stranger nine times in his own kitchen.' 

Alana took a few deep breaths. 'No charges?' 

'None. Never even mentioned.' 

'I suppose they were just glad that you decided to pitch in,' said Alana, somewhat bitterly. All the years of convincing Will that he didn't have to give in to the constant offers and pleas and veiled threats, didn't have to jump and then ask how high on the way down, thrown back in Will's face because there was fucking _road work_. 

'I need your help,' said Will. 

Alana frowned. 'You said there were no charges.' 

'I'm petitioning for legal guardianship,' said Will. 'She's eighteen, and it's a stretch given the circumstances, but it could work if I play my cards right. She's still in the hospital,' he added. 

'Will, I don't—' 

'She feels safe. With me,' said Will, with quiet insistence. 'This... this girl whose whole _world_ bled out in front of her, Alana.' 

Alana knew that determination, in Will. Knew it was tenacious. He'd never let go. 

'Her name is Abigail,' he said. 'She wants to go to culinary school.' 

* * * 

Margot closed the stage door and leaned up against Will. 'I'm cold. Also, you're a fucking superhero, apparently.' 

Will rubbed the back of his neck. 'I'm really not.' 

'So Abigail's your _daughter?_ ' 

'Legally.' 

'Why doesn't she live with you?' 

Will gave her a look, which Margot didn't see due to how they were standing. 'She's a twenty-one-year-old girl, Margot. Do you honestly think she'd want to be stuck in the middle of a field with the sleepwalking Dog Hermit? I don't even have Netflix. We found her an apartment.' 

'And somehow Titty Crime found out about all this.' Margot made a little noise of frustration into Will's chest. 'God, how did _that_ little shit know before I did? I've known Abigail for like, two _years_. How the fuck did all this happen under my nose?' 

'The point was to keep people's noses out of it. Even good people's.' 

'I feel like I should talk to her. I mean, we both have experience with immediate family members wanting to murder our asses.' 

'It's definitely a talking point.' 

'Wasn't the Shrike's last name Hobbs?' 

'Yeah,' said Will. 

'Abigail's is Steinway.' 

Will smiled into Margot's hair as they leaned together. 'She picked it, herself.' 

* * * 

Hannibal strolled around after the lights had come up, taking Alana up on her offer to see how they closed everything down for the night. He, Alana, and the Crawfords had come to a good arrangement that evening. Now Hannibal needed time to grow accustomed to the place, learn the ins and outs so he would be up to the task. 

'What's this?' he asked Abigail, who was straightening up the hostess pulpit. 

'Oh, that's for the raffle.' She'd been introduced to Hannibal the other night and they had hit it off, Abigail overjoyed to have another culinary enthusiast to talk to. 'You put in a card, we take out a card every first Friday of the month.' 

'What might a person win?' 

'Certain someones,' said Abigail, 'can win a gift card for five free rounds.' 

Hannibal hummed in assent. 'And what of the uncertain someones?' 

'I take out cards that belong to dicks,' she explained, flipping through the discard pile she had on-hand. 'People who grope me or any other girl here,' four cards went down, 'if somebody's shitty to one of the bartenders,' about ten, 'or like, when people catcall the singers in a _gross_ way instead of like, a campy fun way that doesn't make anybody uncomfortable.' Three cards. 'People who make Will unhappy.' One card. 'That kind of stuff.' 

'That's a lot to recall from a business card at the beginning of the night,' said Hannibal. 

'I use a memory trick. I've got a good head for names and faces, and, uh,' she pulled a face. 'Most of them end up being pretty memorable, anyway.' 

'Whatever do you do with them?' 

Abigail shrugged. 'I inflict the curse on them.' 

'Literally or figuratively? It's good to know what young people are into these days.' 

'It's not _witchcraft_ ,' said Abigail, with a laugh. 'Though I wouldn't mind if it was. Mostly I find their card and I'm like, _that guy should take his meat hooks elsewhere._ _That woman needs to learn not to be such a creep_ , et cetera _._ And then I throw it away. You know?' 

'I understand completely,' said Hannibal. 'I do much the same with cards I've been given by uncouth individuals.' 

'And hey, maybe it'll come back around to them in the end. Something something cosmic balance.' She nudged him with her elbow, something Hannibal would not have allowed of anyone else. 'Will you come back to the kitchen and show me some pointers with a knife? I've been mangling citrus, but luckily we have a ton of limes back there.' 

'It would be my pleasure,' said Hannibal. 

As Abigail led him away, he turned back, sweeping the rejected cards into a tidy stack, and then into his pocket. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Somehow, among the mass of people present for the Anniversary of the Fire, Mason had lurked and waited. Everyone on staff at the Morgue knew he was trouble; he had tried to come calling, before.

Margot Verger was everything her twin brother wasn't. 

Mason, blond and wild-eyed, was bombastic and steamrollered anyone who had the misfortune of talking to him. He had no people skills, no empathy, and snidely pretended to care about you when what he was really saying was _I'd skin you alive right now if I didn't have better, more important people to torture._ He drank martinis spiked with the tears, fed drugged chocolates to children, and carried a knife that had seen more human blood than an operating table. Nevertheless, he moved with surprising ease in the circles that mattered to him. No one ever suspected that a beast lurked within, even—sometimes especially—when it was staring them in the face. 

Margot, dark-haired and subdued, rarely spoke in anything beyond a monotone. She was sarcastic, yes, but she knew when not to be, and she'd catch other people's moods like they were contagious. When she cared about you, she cared _hard_ , and would move heaven and earth to help a friend. She smoked sweet cigarettes she bought out of state, and always offered to share despite the expense; she counseled teenage girls online through an anonymous suicide prevention chat room; she routinely called customer service numbers off receipts to leave glowing praise of retail workers she encountered, especially when it was obvious that those people had had a difficult shift. Unfortunately, Margot had an eerie blankness to her manner that led others to believe there was something wrong with her. People tried to ignore it, but the fact remained that while she was not _overtly_ unnerving, she made them feel a peculiar spike of fear when she looked at them. 

All in all, it would be harder to find two siblings so uniquely at odds.Though they had shared the same womb, they were opposites in nearly every respect, no more so than now, as Mason Verger's corpse was slumped sideways in a quickening cape of blood, a chef's knife stuck through his solar plexus like a cocktail toothpick through a cube of cheese. 

'Oh my god,' said Abigail. 

Hannibal stepped up next to her, slowly so as not to startle her more, and placed a hand on her shoulder. 'Come here,' he said, gesturing to the other side of the little kitchen behind the bar. 'You needn't look if it troubles you.' 

But she did look. 'Oh my god,' she repeated hollowly. 'I killed him.' She looked up at Hannibal. 'Did I kill him?' 

'Undoubtedly,' said Hannibal. 'Shall I check his pulse all the same?' 

Abigail nodded. 'That would be good, yes. Thank you.' 

'Just stay where you are. I'll only be a moment.' 

Somehow, among the mass of people present for the Anniversary of the Fire, Mason had lurked and waited. Everyone on staff at the Morgue knew he was trouble; he had tried to come calling, before. 

He always claimed to want to talk to his sister. But Mason never just talked. He destroyed. 

Abigail had seen him pass by the porthole in the kitchen door, just a glance, but she knew his face at once. They all did. She brightened up when she saw him as if a switch had been flipped, girlish enthusiasm to meet such a famous man, and would he like her to go find his dear Margot for him? She'd be _so_ pleased to see him, tonight of all nights. 

_What a nice, helpful, pleasant young woman you are,_ Mason Verger told her. 

And in a single second when Mason glanced over at Hannibal for an introduction, Abigail had taken a single step forward and driven the knife into his body like a railroad spike: first the initial blow into which all the real energy was drained, then relentlessly tamping it down because now you were committed to the thing, inch by inch under the heel of her hand until the handle was flush with his torso. 

'Definitely dead,' Hannibal confirmed, getting to his feet once more. 'I'll replace the knife, of course.' 

'Okay,' said Abigail. Her hands were shaking. Hannibal took them in his own and stilled them, with no thought to the blood. 

'You've done well in a difficult situation,' he said. 'You were quick and ruthless. Perhaps your knife skills are better than you thought.' 

'You know,' said Abigail, still watching the blood as it crept across the tiles, 'I can't even get approved for a loan, and I just killed a guy worth forty-eight billon dollars.' 

'Proving that the circumstances of your life need not hold you back from doing what needs to be done,' said Hannibal. 

Abigail gave him a long look. 'I need to find Will.' 

'Then we shall find him,' said Hannibal. 'Together.' 

Hannibal washed his own and then Abigail's hands at the three-compartment sink, using a small nylon detail brush—meant for straws and the grooves of particular glasses—to clean the blood that had begun to dry under her nails. He put the brush into his pocket when he was done, and dried her fingers with his handkerchief. 

'You're very peaceful,' said Abigail. 'I like you.' 

Hannibal checked the cuffs of her shirt for blood, and having found none, he squeezed her hands gently and then let them go. 'I like you, as well.' 

When they left the kitchen, Hannibal made certain the door had swung closed before he stepped away. He caught Katz's eye and gestured for her to come to their end of the bar. 

'What's up, Doc?' said Katz. She had a black lipstick print on one cheek. 

'This is very important, so please listen closely.' 

'I hear you,' said Katz, immediately on alert. All kinds of emergencies came up in a nightclub, you just had to roll with it. 

'Do not, under any circumstances, enter the kitchen or allow your gentlemen colleages to do so. Not until you have been given word.' 

Katz frowned but nodded, looking to Abigail for some clue. Abigail had had the presence of mind to look preoccupied to allay suspicion, and was doing something on her phone. 'Did anything happen?' said Katz. 

'Nothing to be overly concerned about. A bag of garbage burst when Abigail attempted to remove it,' said Hannibal. 'We both saw blood. There may be a contamination risk, but it's being handled.' 

'Ah, jeez. Sounds like one of those college guys who thinks he's a vampire left something weird for the bussers to clean up.' She pulled a face. 'Everything dark and sticky gets the same treatment until the lights go up. Thanks for the heads up.' 

'Have you seen Will?' 

'I think he's in the passage with Margot. Alana's outside saying goodnight to Aunt Basie, if you need her.' 

Hannibal gave her a nod. 'Thank you, Ms Katz.' 

She gave him a half-assed salute. 'You're the boss, future new co-boss.' 

* * * 

Will sat with his back to the wall. Margot had gone to her dressing room to climb out of her gown, take her stage makeup off, and throw together anything she needed to take back to Will's house. Bedelia had come out of her own dressing room, said goodbye to Will, picked up her backlog of tips from the office and left for the night. Will could still hear the clatter of chairs and glasses, but he was alone. 

He looked at the floorboards. They had remained untouched by the fire, which had been mostly contained in the front rooms of the club. Nearly one hundred years ago, tonight, Bello and Jacqueline had ushered their friends and customers down this very passage, hearts racing with fear, fleeing from punishment they had not earned. 

Bella had once shown Will the edition of the _Baltimore Sun_ with the headline about the raid. She'd found a physical copy at an estate sale after a lengthy search. 

'No way of knowing who all survived, who was really there,' she had said, shaking her head with something not sadness, but akin to it. 'They didn't actually catch anyone that night. By the time the fire had been put out, any clear indicators of alcohol on the premises had gone missing. The department only had those officers' claims to go on.' 

Will stared at the halftone photo of the blaze, foxed and fragile with age. Thousands of individual dots composed the image, as if it were made of ash. He could almost smell the smoke. 'They didn't find bottles? Anything?' 

'Someone went back into the club after even the cops had evacuated,' Bella had told him. 'Imagine the loyalty that took. Never knowing when the walls might come down, destroying evidence, surrounded by fire.' 

In the present, Will thought about trace, about epithelial cells and all the minutiae that comprise the human body. Pieces of lives brushing every surface, drifting down into the grain of the wood, into the cracks. One hundred years from now, Will's own life would linger in here, mingling with a thousand others in dust and in death. 

He realized someone was speaking to him. 

'Will?' Abigail sat down beside him, mirroring his position as she leaned back against the wall, too. 

'I'm here,' he said. 

'I need help with something,' she said, leaning against him a little. Will put his hand over hers. 

'You okay, kiddo?' When she didn't answer, Will looked up at Hannibal, who had come into the passage with her. 

'Mason Verger's body is in the kitchen,' said Hannibal. He looked as unruffled as ever, though his jacket was off and his sleeves rolled up partway, as they had been when Will had made him breakfast a week ago. 

Will felt his stomach lurch, but he nodded. 'Is there anything I can do?' 

'Look after her,' said Hannibal. 'And look after yourself, please.' 

* * * 

After a brief logistical discussion, Will took a cab to Margot's place, picked up her car and doubled back. Nearly everyone had left by the time he returned; Margot and Abigail were sitting at the bar, doing the tips count. There didn't seem to be anybody else around. 

'Did Alana go home?' he asked. 

'Yeah,' said Abigail. 'Jack gave Hannibal a set of keys earlier. Hannibal told her he'd handle the cleanup, since he's not squeamish about blood.' 

'It's weird to see a guy that fancy scrubbing the floor,' said Margot. 

Abigail nodded as she tucked the drummer's share of the tips into an envelope. 'He said that a manager should be willing to do the work of the lowest employee on the ladder. I think that's sensible.' 

Will went behind the bar and leaned his elbows on it, looking at them both. But before he could speak, Margot held up a hand. 'I've been told,' she said. 'Happiest night of my fucking life, I assure you.' 

Will didn't know what he'd meant to say, anyway. 'All right.' He straightened up again. 'He still here?' 

'Hasn't come out of the kitchen except to ask if people had left,' said Abigail. 

Will went around the corner and looked through the porthole in the kitchen door. He saw Hannibal, back to him, spraying something off in the sink. Several black garbage bags leaned in a line against the legs of the prep counter. The floor was clean, even the grout. 

Will went in, announcing himself. 'It's me. What's going on?' 

Hannibal gave him a glance over his shoulder. 'Ah, Will. How are you?' 

'Not going to answer my question?' Will resisted looking down into the sink, but the urge was strong. 

'You needn't be concerned,' said Hannibal. 

'But I am.' 

'That is your choice, of course. But there is no need to involve yourself further.' 

Will rankled, at that. 'My daughter stabbed my friend's brother to death. I have every need to involve myself. More than you do, at any rate.' 

'I was present,' Hannibal reminded him mildly. 'I am perfectly willing to take matters in hand.' 

Will's gaze kept being drawn, reluctantly, to the trash bags lined up to be taken out. The knots at the top were thick, probably double- or triple-bagged. 'And your response was to do what, exactly?' 

Hannibal turned off the sprayer head, keeping what he was doing blocked from view. Eventually he turned to Will, drying off his hands on one of the towels Will had bought at Target, the one with a pattern of fried eggs on it. It seemed like that had happened years ago. 

'I jointed the body and broke it down into manageable portions,' said Hannibal, still as calmly as if they were discussing something mundane. _Manageable_. Like it was no big deal. 

'You can't just take it out like a sack of beer bottles,' Will pointed out. 

'No.' 

Will swallowed, looked away, and then looked back. 'Let me help.' 

'Will.' 

'I used to work homicide.' 

Hannibal's eyebrows rose fractionally. 'Indeed.' 

'The funny thing about hunting down killers is that you learn how to do it better than they do.' 

'Then I would appreciate your professional opinion.' 

'Take it up to Lake Audubon or Thoreau,' said Will, and his own voice sounded far away. 'Or both. Better if it's both. Wrap it securely, weigh it down, finish with chicken wire. It'll keep some fish fed through the winter, once they work their way into the bags.' 

'Do you have a boat?' said Hannibal. 

Will thought of the boat engine sitting in his garage, still in pieces. He hadn't worked on it for weeks. 'Not exactly, but I know of a summer house on Thoreau that's vacant until about May. They do.' 

Hannibal's expression was hard to read. 'Are you offering to be party in the disposal of a corpse, Will?' 

Will's jaw clenched, reasons why not to elbowing for prominence in his mind, but he jerked a nod. 'Guess I am.' 

Hannibal was rolling his shirtsleeves back down. 'And what of Abigail and your houseguest?' 

'We'll lock up, Abigail can drive Margot back to my place, and you can drop me back when we're done.' 

Hannibal put on his waistcoat and jacket, and quite suddenly looked as he had a few hours ago. As if this was just a hiccup in the course of an otherwise pleasurable evening. Or like it wasn't a hiccup at all. 

'That seems wise. Shall we go?' 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Page after page of a dazzling life. What had compelled Hannibal to come to a place like this, much less agree to start managing it? He'd said Bella had insisted. Anything for a friend.
> 
> Anything.

The air on the lake was far colder than the shore. Out here it felt like winter had already come, clawing its way into Will's bones, rasping at his face, scouring his throat as he breathed. It was good. He felt like he needed to fight something, right now, something outside of himself. 

They rowed out into the middle of Audubon, taking turns at the oars. The wind had set the waves churning, and in the light of the battery-powered camping lantern by Will's feet, the dark water looked like a thousand fists, swinging and punching at the sides of their little boat. Evil spirits without and within, reaching for Will with their icy fingers. 

Will sang to himself under his breath while Hannibal rowed. 

_Abide with me; fast falls the eventide_

_The darkness deepens, Lord, with me abide_

_When other helpers fail and comforts flee_

_Help of the helpless, O abide with me_

Will wrapped his arms tighter around himself. He wasn't dressed for this, and neither was Hannibal, but the latter didn't seem to notice. Or if he did, he wasn't bothered. Too single-minded in his task. Every revolution of the oars took them farther from sight of the banks. Will wondered what it would be like to just row and row forever, never going back. 

_Swift to its close ebbs out life's little day_

_Earth's joys grow dim, its glories pass away_

_Change and decay in all around I see_

_O Lord who changes not, abide with me_

Will's teeth were chattering too hard to continue, voice trembling in his chest. 

'I appreciate the accompaniment,' said Hannibal. 

Will winced as a new spear of wind lanced through him. 'Didn't know you could hear me.' 

Two more alternating turns at the oars. They reached a point where they couldn't see the shore in any direction. 

'Here, I think,' said Hannibal. 

Will looked at the pile of stuff in the middle of the boat. The bags, wrapped well in tarps with bricks folded inside, the hexagonal mesh of the chicken wire. 'I feel like I should say a few words.' 

Hannibal picked up the first bundle, poised to tip it over the side. 'Be my guest.' 

Will closed his eyes, remembered Margot's scars, the flat quality of her voice, the way she had winced in her dressing room when Will helped her into her coat over the sling that held her broken arm. 

_'Fuck you,'_ said Will, venomously, to Mason Verger's remains. 

There were splashes; the boat rocked; Hannibal and Will made their way back to the shore in silence, to retrieve the other half of their cargo and do it all again. 

* * * 

Hours later, the tips of his nose and fingers still numb with cold, Will lay tucked between Margot and Abigail in his little bed. Outside, ten o'clock light threw itself against the windows. The dogs had abandoned the space heater on the other side of the room to flop in staggered clusters around the bed, as if guarding its occupants. 

Will couldn't sleep, racing thoughts rattling faster than his teeth in the wind. He couldn't stop thinking about what was going to happen. How all of them had changed. Who would need to be told, and what. Who might come looking for them. And he couldn't stop thinking about how through all that had happened in the strained hours of the early morning, when Will had undressed he had been startled to find that he hadn't taken the watch off. It gleamed from his wrist like a circlet of sunlight, time still moving silently along its perpetual journey. Will could feel the tiny sensation of each tick of the hands. 

He'd forgotten he was wearing it. It could have had its face smashed in when he'd slipped as he took the boat down from its rack behind the summer house; it could have been irreparably gouged as he wrapped the chicken wire around each parcel of flesh; its clasp could have been knocked loose as Will rowed in the icy blast of the wind; it could have tumbled down into the depths with Mason Verger. 

But it hadn't. Beautifully crafted, extravagant and untouched by strife, like the man who had given it to him. 

Will didn't know how to countenance the side of Hannibal he'd seen tonight. The no-nonsense handling of the murder, the disposal, doing what needed to be done while neither worrying about how it might have been prevented nor preoccupied by what would come after. Radical acceptance, Alana would call it. No time but the present. 

And despite himself, Will still felt a tug of longing in his gut when he thought of Hannibal. But how could he? Did Will's morals go out the window when presented with a handsome face and a voice that spun ordinary conversation into poetry? Had Will even had morals to begin with? 

He thought about Bello Drago and his fascinating wife, how they had lived on untouched by every successive death in their former establishment. Had they kept tabs on it? Had they even known? Mason Verger had joined the ranks of those on the Dead Wall, but his image wouldn't. Will was almost angry that someone so terrible had died there, as if Mason's blood would seep into the cracks and poison the dust and memory of everyone who had come before. 

On the drive back to Wolf Trap, Will had eaten bread and cheese and grapes that Hannibal had picked up somewhere outside Reston. Will wasn't tasting much of it, but it didn't matter. The effort and hours that had elapsed since last he'd eaten (five in the evening the previous day, or was it six?) had left him physically ravenous, though mentally he felt he might never want to eat again. 

'I shall have to replace your suit,' said Hannibal. 

Will finished chewing a couple of grapes before he responded. 'What?' 

'It's been snagged in several places, I'm afraid,' said Hannibal. 'And there is a tear in the knee of the left trouser leg. Such damage would not age well, even with expert repair.' 

Will hadn't even noticed. 'You don't have to do that.' 

'I would like to.' 

'If I'd had the sense to change—' 

'It would have troubled you to keep it, if you had,' said Hannibal, and Will realized he was right. 'You would wear the memories against your skin like thorns, were you to ever put it on again.' 

Will just nodded, tearing off another chunk of baguette. 'Okay. Thanks.' 

All the same, when Will got home and undressed, he hung the suit, shirt and tie together on a single hanger and placed in the back of his closet. 

He left the watch on. 

* * * 

Alana stood on the little stair-step box in front of the mirrors, Hannibal checking the fit of black-and-white striped jacket. 

'I can't believe you scrubbed the damn floor,' she said. 

She caught the faint smile in his reflection. 'I do all my own cleaning, you know. Arms out to the side, please.' 

'And I can't believe you didn't charge me for the stuff you made for Will,' Alana went on. 'Wait, no, I tell a lie. You _did_ charge me. A dollar. You know how weird it is to write a check for a dollar?' 

'I never have.' 

'Yeah, I bet you haven't.' 

'You may put your arms down,' said Hannibal. 'A slight alteration to the fall of the cuffs, I think. It will only take a moment.' 

Alana stepped down and handed the jacket to him. 'You really like him, don't you? Our Will.' She followed him into the back, leaning against the cutting table as Hannibal got out needle and thread. He always did the smaller adjustments by hand. 

'I do,' he said. 'Have you any advice, in the spirit of friendship? I can tell you're bursting to warn me off.' 

'Not _warn you off_ ,' said Alana with a brief eyeroll. 'Just... it's good to be aware of some things.' 

'We've spoken of him before.' 

'You didn't look at him like you'd look at an eighteenth-century medical specimen from the Hunterian Collection, before.' 

'I hardly see him as being something under glass,' Hannibal pointed out. 'Or an oddity preserved in a jar to be gawked at by students.' 

'I meant that you get these starry eyes. You know?' 

The corner of Hannibal's mouth flickered. 'I have no idea what you mean.' 

'Like you wish you could acquire him,' said Alana. 'I _know_ you, Hannibal.' 

'I hardly know how I would go on without you here to underscore the eccentricity of my character.' 

'Funny.' Alana crossed her arms. 'Be careful with him.' 

Hannibal snipped the tail of a piece of thread and wound another from the spool. 'I had no intention of doing otherwise.' 

Alana watched him for awhile. 

'He's cagey and easily startled,' she said. 'Why did you give him that watch? It scared him to death.' 

'I wanted to see what would happen.' 

Alana gave him a long look. 'Well?' 

'He wore it, did he not? It looks as well on him as I had hoped.' 

'You really are too much,' said Alana, shaking her head. 

'I've been made aware of that, yes. Try it now.' 

Hannibal sat back and observed as Alana put the jacket on again, testing her range of movement to see where the sleeves fell. 

'That's better,' she said. 

'Good. Shall I wrap it up?' 

'You don't need to put everything in a fancy box,' said Alana. More meanings than one. 'I can just hang it up in the back seat like dry cleaning.' 

'You wound me,' said Hannibal, with a smile. 

'You'll live.' 

Hannibal retrieved her coat from the stand by the door and helped her into it. 'I suppose I must.' 

* * * 

Abigail got up before anyone else—at about one PM—took the dogs out, then started on pancakes and bacon. She and Margot had stopped at a 24-hour Walmart on the way to Will's last night, because they both knew Will didn't have enough food in the house for three people, unless those people were dogs. 

They'd walked the deserted aisles, ducking around dollies stacked high with boxes of items to be stocked, wandering for longer than they needed to. 

'No matter what happens, I'm glad,' said Abigail as they stood in front of the cooler cabinet of orange juice, trying to remember whether Will liked pulp or not. 'He deserved it.' 

Margot leaned a little against her in a one-armed hug. 'Yeah, but you didn't.' 

'I'm honestly fine,' said Abigail, deciding that Some Pulp was a safer bet than either extreme. 'I don't feel bad about it.' 

'Doesn't mean you're fine.' 

'I am, though.' Doing something normal like shopping helped. She put the juice in their cart to join a scattered assortment of stuff including a multi-pack of toothbrushes, bananas, beans and wild rice and vegetables for soup, frozen tater tots, first aid gauze pads and a sack of discounted Halloween candy. 'Do we need eggs? We should get eggs.' 

Eggs led to bacon, bacon led to flour and sugar and baking powder for pancakes, then chocolate chips and pecans to make cookies, and eventually their cart was more full than they'd intended. 

'How long are you staying?' Abigail asked. She'd been keeping a running tab of the prices on her phone, and was frowning down at it now. 

'How long are _you_ staying?' 

'No idea. Split the bill?' 

'Sweetie, I can cover this with tonight's tips. You're fine.' 

'Wish I got tips,' Abigail joked as they went up to the self-checkout, only seeing one or two tired-looking people along the way. 'All I get is business cards and the occasional Handsy Harold.' 

'Maybe we can work a number into a set for you sometime,' said Margot, trying to lift the flour out of the cart with her good arm. 'Oof. Is this five pounds or fifty?' 

'Shoo.' Abigail took it from her. 'All you need to be lifting is cash out of your wallet.' 

Margot smirked. 'Nice. I'm the next Aunt Basie.' 

'Not a bad goal to aspire to, really.' 

'Mm, I know, right? Those _furs_.' 

Abigail loaded up the bags. 'Someday you, too, can have a delicate twink manservant to carry your purse for you.' 

In the present, Abigail flipped the first pancake, finding it burnt. Amazing culinary skills at work. Buster looked up at her hopefully, wiggling in anticipation. 

Abigail stuck her tongue out at him. 'I'm _not_ feeding you pancakes, Buster-man. It gives you the toots.' 

'It really does.' Will came in and poured himself some coffee from the French press. 'Thanks for doing breakfast. You all right?' 

'Everybody keeps asking me if I'm all right.' 

'Of course we are.' 

Abigail checked the other side of the pancake, which was fine. She slid it off onto the plate she had next to the stove, and tore a piece off of it to eat while she cooked. 'Are you all right? You were gone for hours and you smelled like pond water when you came home.' 

'I didn't know I'd woken you up,' said Will, evading the question. 

'When I was a kid, I'd always wake up when I heard my dad come in in the mornings,' she said. 'I'd lay around in bed until he went to take a nap before work, and I'd make him breakfast.' 

That information thickened the air around them with memory, and Will took too big of a drink of his coffee, scalding on the way down. 'That's, uh.' 

'Not a great comparison, I know.' 

'It's okay,' said Will, hopping up to sit on a free stretch of counter. 'You knew what he was, at least subconsciously. And you loved him anyway.' 

Abigail tore off another bite of pancake, reassuring herself that the chef always eats what other people don't care to. 

* * * 

_No moon at all, what a night!_

_Even lightning bugs have dimmed their light_

_Stars have disappeared from sight_

_And there's no moon at all_

This was a piece that let the horn section really strut their stuff, and Will was glad. His hands still ached from the rowing and the cold. The set list tonight was simple, comfortable: piano-light, not heavy the vocals either, nothing extravagant. Everyone was tired after the Anniversary. 

For the opening number, Will stood at the tall mic, feeling more exposed that he ever had at the piano. He expected to feel a sick apprehension, that much closer to the audience, but if anything his mask fit more snugly, his character unshakeable tonight. 

_Don't make a sound, it's so dark_

_Even Fido is afraid to bark_

_What a perfect night to park_

_And there's no moon at all_

Before they'd left for the city, Abigail had helped Will pick something to wear out of the boxes from Hannibal's shop, each piece swathed in black tissue paper. Will hadn't even unwrapped most of it yet, just the suit and two shirts he'd worn already. He'd been warily eyeing the rest of the boxes, not sure if he wanted to know. Not sure what else Hannibal would surprise him with. 

There had been a second suit, in a deep merlot that made Will look paler and his eyes look bluer; a shirt of midnight blue silk, one in crisp white cotton, ties that went with everything. But the last box had been the kicker. 

_Should we want atmosphere_

_For inspiration, dear_

_One kiss will make it clear_

_The moon is bright, the bright moonlight might_

_Interfere_

A sheer black shirt—chiffon?—with black pearl buttons, slick and cold to the touch. Down from one shoulder then the other, meeting in a line down the button placket, blood red and black embroidery in glossy thread caught the light. Will was immediately reminded of autopsy incisions. 

'This one,' said Abigail, and Margot agreed. 

_There is no moon at all up above_

_This is nothing like they told us of_

_What a perfect night for love_

_And there's no moon at all_

Will wore the suit jacket open and without a tie, his sleeves scrunched up to just below the elbow. The watch on full display. He imagined the look on Hannibal's face when he saw, if Hannibal would even show up tonight. It's not like he didn't have a social life; Will had Googled him, finding recent academic papers and society articles about gallery openings, operatic performances, philanthropic events. A bio from 2006 on a psychology blog mentioned Dr Lecter's pro bono work with LGBT youth, in particular those struggling with trauma and personality disorders. There were photos of him in various styles of tux, mingling with gem-encrusted, fur-coated ladies and all-smiles political heavyweights; in one picture, he sat at a desk in what looked like a library, a fireplace visible at the end of the room behind him. More than one article held details of his infamous dinner parties: the event of the season, invitations to which were the envy of all. Several fashion magazine sites mentioned _Atelier de Sang_ , recommending its proprietor as a cutting-edge designer to watch out for. 

_No moon, no moon_

_No moon at all_

Page after page of a dazzling life. What had compelled Hannibal to come to a place like this, much less agree to start managing it? He'd said Bella had insisted. Anything for a friend. 

Anything. 

_No moon, no moon_

_No moon, no moon at all_

Will, Margot, and Abigail had debated on the drive in whether they should tell Alana. Didn't she have a right to know? Wouldn't she ask, if Margot stopped looking over her shoulder all the time? 

_Should we want atmosphere_

_For inspiration, dear_

_One kiss will make it clear_

_The moon is bright, the bright moonlight might_

_Interfere_

But maybe it was for the best. Why should they involve one more person? Four of them were already up to their necks in it, with no telling when they might go under. 

_There is no moon at all up above_

_This is nothing like they told us of_

Will closed his eyes as he sang, remembering the black water with its drowning hands, the bite of the wind, the way Hannibal watched him in the dark. 

_What a perfect night for love_

_And there's no moon at all_

_No moon at all_

When the song ended, Bedelia came out to footlights and Will went back to the piano. 

'Good evening! How many of you were here last night?' 

A few cheers. 

'Dear _god_ ,' said Will into his mic, 'how are you people alive? Go home, for fuck's sake. Do a cleanse. Get your worldly affairs in order.' 

'Now, now, Will,' Bedelia shook a satin-gloved finger at him. 'There's no call for censure. After all, what would they say about how _we_ live? Will, for instance,' she added, turning back to the audience, 'has seven dogs.' 

'I do _not_ ,' Will lied, very obviously. 

'You do! What are their names, again? Pride, Wrath, Lust—stop me if you've heard this one before—' 

'Oh, Miss B, that's not kind. That's not kind at _all_. How about we talk about your seven vibrators, instead?' 

This got _ooooh_ s and laughs from the crowd. 'What are _their_ names?' somebody shouted. 

'I named them after cheeky audience members I've killed and eaten,' said Bedelia sweetly. 'So watch out!' 

They segued into a Caro Emerald number, then some band-only instrumentals. 

'You look like hell,' Bedelia told Will as they drank water in the passage. 

'I am hell,' said Will. 

'Don't steal my line, you abysmal little man.' 

'Didn't see your name on it.' 

Bedelia leaned back against the wall, stretching her back straight against it. 'But seriously, did you catch my Death Cold?' 

'I don't think so.' Will shrugged. 'Hard night, is all. After the show, I mean.' 

Bedelia nodded, then said, 'I still haven't met that man.' 

'What man?' 

'Jack's man, the new co-owner. No one's told me a thing about him.' 

'Oh, Hannibal.' 

Bedelia blanched. 'His name is Hannibal?' 

'Weird name, right?' 

'Hannibal _Lecter_?' 

Will frowned, nodding. 'You two know each other? Jeez, who _doesn't_ know this guy?' 

'Fuck,' Bedelia said under her breath before answering. 'He used to be my therapist.' 

'We seem to get a lot of that around here,' said Will, with a nod toward Alana's office. 'He's not a therapist anymore, if that helps.' 

Bedelia closed her eyes, as if she had got a pain somewhere. 'That's worse.' 

'He's a tailor now,' Will added. 'Made what I'm wearing.' 

'Oh, yes, he'd _like_ you, wouldn't he?' 

Will watched her as she took a long drink of water. 'What's that supposed to mean?' 

'It means what it sounds like.' 

'I'm not sure _what_ it sounds like.' 

Applause noised from beyond the passage, and Will looked at the set list on the wall. 'Duty calls. Remember we're tuned down for the duet.' 

Bedelia nodded but said nothing, following him back out onstage. 

* * * 

Sets and intermissions passed, and Will kept searching the crowd for Hannibal, but he was nowhere to be seen. The last set wound down, last call, people went home, the lights and chairs went up. 

'I have an errand to run before I head back,' he told Abigail. 'Can you and Margot take your car back to Wolf Trap, and I'll take hers?' 

'Sure,' she said. 'Hey, have you seen last night's reject pile? I can't find it anywhere.' 

'One of the bussers might've tossed it.' 

'They _know_ I gotta curse them.' Abigail shrugged. 'Ah well. Whoever those people were, they'll get what's coming to them.' 

* * * 

The shop was dark, but through the front window Will saw a crease of light from under a door at the top of the stairs that led to the loft above. He had no idea what he was doing, and he grumbled to himself about it as he rounded the building to the fire escape, looking up. Hannibal was probably working on some important client's order, or something. The man had a life that took place out of the space between the Morgue's broken neon sign and Will's piano. 

Nevertheless, Will felt a foolish urge to find a pebble and toss it at the lighted window overhead, to get Hannibal's attention like they were teenagers with plans to sneak out. He stood there and thought, instead. He'd taken one of Margot's clove cigarettes out of her glove compartment, and lit it with a matchbook from work. (He'd initially taken a mini lighter from the glove box, but it had fallen through a hole in his coat pocket and got stuck in the lining.) It was an almost eeriely windless night, and the smoke curled up and up in whorls, a silken strand connecting Will to the black sky. 

He could hear music inside. Something by Bach, he didn't remember the name. He remembered singing to himself in the boat, the way Hannibal had looked at him, like Will was the only light on the water. 

Will quietly hopped until he could reach and pull down the ladder of the fire escape, which (surprisingly, for Baltimore) seemed to have been oiled and maintained. He climbed the rungs, the music growing clearer as he ascended, smoke curling away with his breath, the clove still half-finished between his lips. 

The window was open just a crack. Will sat down carefully on the metal mesh of the fire escape platform, his back to the brick wall, listening to Hannibal moving inside. 

Will didn't know how long he sat there, but by the music that filtered out to him on the cold night air, it seemed to be at least an hour. Why was he doing this? But people did odd things in the wake of death. 

His ass was getting numb from the cold, and Will moved, thinking that this was probably enough self-indulgence for one night. But as he rose to his knees in preparation to stand, the movement of his body moved the air, and the translucent curtain softly moved against the barely-open window, and Will saw an inch of what went on within. 

He froze. 

Hannibal's back to the window, one hand in a shiny red glove—no, it was blood, his hands were drenched with it, one slow drip traversing the length of his forearm in stages, slow and thick and it couldn't have been warm, _couldn't_ be, not moving like that, cold blood creeping along by centimeters, lazy as molasses, as if reaching out to kiss the folded-back sleeve of his shirt. 

The curtain settled once more. Will's pulse didn't. He crouched on the fire escape, one hand balancing him against the wall, and experimentally blew at the sliver of open space between the window and the frame. The curtain shushed to and fro, not enough. Will reached with shaking fingers through the gap over the sill, two fingers gently grasping the edge of the curtain and holding it back enough to see inside. 

What drew the eye most forcefully was the image of Mason Verger's head in a steel basin on a white enamel tabletop, blood dried around his slack mouth, a strange red emptiness where his tongue might have lolled out in death. Before a polished butcher block (it looked like birdseye maple, something Abigail would have groaned jealously over), Hannibal was trimming the skin and fat away from the muscle of a right arm with a knife Will recognized. Will caught sight, too, of familiar black bags, some empty now, others folded open on the enamel exam table to give Will a glimpse of their grisly cargo. 

A wave of vertigo drove Will back, letting go of the curtain, clutching at the railing of the fire escape with unfeeling fingers. The music continued inside, the sound of the smooth movements of Hannibal's knife agaist flesh and wood. 

The previous night fell back into Will's mind, flipped over, turned inside out. How Hannibal had insisted upon hefting the bags to and from the car. How Will hadn't seen Abigail's knife anywhere, when he'd gone into the kitchen to speak with him. How Will hadn't looked in the sink. 

Will closed his eyes, gasping for breath and never seeming to get enough. _What would we get if we killed him with a hammer?_ He felt the chill of the night air against his chest through the sheer shirt, his blood-colored jacket, and coat. _I am perfectly willing to take matters in hand._ He felt in his memory the warm press of Hannibal's hand at the small of his back, guiding him, positioning him where Hannibal wanted. _Will's good at making people feel safe._ He saw Garrett Jacob Hobbs, riddled with bullet holes, staggering to the floor next to the body of his slain wife, _See?_ Will saw the look on Abigail's face through the fine mist of blood on his glasses. Relief. Breathlessness. Excitement. Everything Hannibal had done to push Will's buttons, to find ways to reward him for whatever it was Hannibal thought Will was good for, _I wouldn't trade my curse for yours._

_Really? What's on the table?_

Oh, god. 

Will stayed where he was until he could open his eyes, face the world in front of him again without waves of nausea and entirely unwelcome arousal sending him spinning out again. 

Fear clutched at his throat as he saw Hannibal standing at the window, curtains pulled aside, watching him. 

'Good evening, Will,' he said. His hands had been scrubbed clean. 'Are you going to come in from the cold?' 

'How did you—' 

'Miss Verger's clove cigarettes. Uniquely sweet. I smelled them on you last night.' 

Right. 'What... what the hell are you—' 

'Please come in,' said Hannibal, with the same intonation he had when Will had come to the shop to get measured, and Will found he couldn't say no. 

Hannibal, whose hands were now clean, raised the window and stood back as Will climbed inside. 

'I'm not accustomed to taking visitors on the second floor,' Hannibal said, with a little smile. He could have meant _through the window_ or at all. 

Will swallowed, glancing at Mason Verger's severed head. 'I can see why.' 

He took in the rest of their surroundings: a sink, cabinets, a small fridge, a vacuum-sealing device for freezer bags. A ceiling light that could be positioned, like in an operating room, only it looked vintage. On one wall there was a framed diploma; Will could just make out the name _James Vartanian_ in flowing script. He had no idea who that was. 

'What did we drop in the lakes?' said Will. 

'A bar accumulates all manner of garbage by the end of the night,' said Hannibal. 

Will was staring at Hannibal's hands. 'What are you taking from him?' 

'His tongue, for the shrill and overly personal character of his speech. His right arm, for what his did to his sister's. A few other components, as well, less symbolic, but of no less practical use.' 

Will realized how close Hannibal was, and reached for him. An anchor as the room tilted in his mind's eye. Half in memory, half out. 

_Even loathsome things. Even the worst things._

_Do you feel like repeated instances of this, in the case of male offenders, has influenced your gender and sexual experience?_

Nights after crime scenes, unable to sleep, reliving the feelings of power and pleasure he felt from those he hunted. The fierce rush of joy and _rightness_ when he felt, through them, the killing blow fall. Arching, biting his lip hard to button in a scream as he came, the only times he could, anymore. 

_It's a concept I've given some thought._

Hannibal didn't ask what he was thinking, and didn't seem particularly concerned. Living in the moment as wholly as anyone could. Will stepped forward to lean against him, and Hannibal allowed it. 

They stood together, foreheads touching, sharing breaths. It wasn't exactly a hug, each only holding the other gently by the forearm, but it was a continuous act of embracing. 

'I can't,' Will said, his voice betraying him despite his attempts to sound stable, rational, normal in spite of the situation, in spite of the gore and the cold and Hannibal's touch. 'I can't _not_ want you, anymore. I can't just stand there and watch you do something like that and then just— _what_?' Will found himself laughing at the absurdity of it. 'What is it that I'm supposed to do?' 

'The rules you seek do not exist,' said Hannibal, bringing a hand up to touch Will's cheek, stroke below his eye with the pad of his thumb. 'To constrain oneself is to bow to suffering.' 

'I thought the line was "to perceive is to suffer",' said Will. 'Fitting.' 

They continued to speak in hushed voices, as if someone were sleeping, as if an incautious word might wake the dead. 

Hannibal's fingers trailed down the side of Will's neck, pausing for a moment against the jump of his pulse. 'It it not a source of suffering for you, Will, to perceive that one path is the right one, or the better one, simply because someone has gone on before you to lay bricks?' 

'I go off the sidewalk,' said Will, closing his eyes. 'Those little strands of bare dirt off to one side or the other. Cutting corners.' 

Hannibal made a small sound in acknowledgement. 'Desire paths.' 

'I want you,' Will confessed. 'I want to know you. _All_ of you.' 

'No one can be fully aware of another human being unless we love them.' 

Will's lower lip curled between his teeth, and released again. His voice was cracking at the edges from the effort he'd taken to remain on the path someone else had laid. 'I can't not,' he said again. 

They held each other, listening to the other's heart, until Will lifted a hand and drifted his fingertips along the curve of Hannibal's jaw, the shape of his mouth, lingering there. 

'I want this,' Will whispered. 'Whatever this is. I don't know if I'll ever understand it, but I _want_ it.' 

'I feel the same.' 

'I want you to touch me,' said Will. 'I want you to know everything.' 

'Follow me,' said Hannibal, taking his hand. 

In the hall beyond there was a landing, an open door leading to a small bathroom with a narrow shower, and another door that led to a bedroom, which was where Hannibal led him. The mattress was on an old metal frame, but the bed was made: neatly, with soft sheets and a duvet, headboard propped with pillows. 

'A previous owner used to let the space to boarders,' said Hannibal. 'At times I have found the need to sleep away from home, so I never repurposed the space.' 

'Who's James Vartanian?' said Will. 

'He was a surgeon,' said Hannibal. 'The room you climbed into was once where he did his work.' 

Will turned and looked up at him, not knowing what to say, wanting to just look for a long time. 

'Undress for me?' There was barely the uplift of a question in Hannibal's tone, as if he hardly dared hope, even in light of what strange acceptance Will had shown so far. 

Will got out of his clothes efficiently, untidily, until they lay in a heap on the end of the bed. Only his jock strap remained. He stood before Hannibal's scrutiny just as he had down in the main shop, only now without mirrors to crowd them. There was one Will, one Hannibal. 

'May I?' said Hannibal. 

He hadn't specified may he what, but Will nodded quickly, one sharp jerk of his chin. 

Hannibal's hand moved to gently cup the pouch Will wore, feeling the weight and acquired warmth of the soft prosthetic inside. 

Will felt a little spike of panic land in his heart, making him fight not to shake where he stood. 

Hannibal spoke, breaking the fear in half and tossing it aside. 'This model suits you,' he said. 'The perfect proportions.' 

As if he'd known from the time of Will's appoointment, or even before, knew what it was and that it wasn't... wasn't _attached_ , and... 

'Doesn't work,' said Will, not daring to look at him. 'It's not the kind with the, uh, the flexible—' 

'Why should it work? It is merely to assist the position of your clothes against your skin. Would you deride the tongue of a shoe for lacking speech?' Hannibal stroked one thumb across Will's abdoment, just over the waistband where it rode low on his hips. 'I'm far more taken with the reality of the flesh.' 

Will opened his mouth to say something sharp, something ill-advised and not at all in response to what Hannibal had actually meant. He closed his mouth again, looking away. 

'You are captivating, Will,' Hannibal murmured, drawing nearer to him so Will could almost feel the heat of his body through his clothes. 'Just as you are. I would not have you change unless you wished it.' 

'I don't,' said Will, truthfully. 'I never hated the plumbing, just the... yeah.' 

'It's beautiful work,' said Hannibal, his other hand held close to Will's chest, not quite touching. 'The integrity of the composition, individually and as a whole. Brownstein?' 

'Buckley.' 

Hannibal nodded, seeming familiar. 'What took you all the way to Minnesota, Will?' 

'It was far away.' 

'A good reason. I've been, myself.' 

'What for?' 

Hannibal took a breath, seeming to hesitate fractionally before answering. 'It was far away.' 

He slid an arm around Will's waist, pulling him closer, hips pressed to hips. Hannibal's hand rested on the small of Will's back, perfectly fitted to the dip in his spine, like it belonged there. Will wished he could always feel it, secure and unchanging under his clothes, a steadying comfort. But he _wanted_ , and moved against the touch, his hands on Hannibal's hips. 

'Take this off, Will,' Hannibal whispered, one thumb hooking into the elastic to tug encouragingly at it. 

'How about you do it for me?' 

It had been a tease, a joke, really, but Hannibal did, kneeling before Will and slowly sliding the jock strap down, mindful of the weight suspended inside so that at no moment was there a risk of either the garment or its passenger dropping to the floor. When it had been set aside, rather more neatly than the rest of Will's clothes, Hannibal rested his cheek against Will's thigh, breathing in slowly, sighing on the exhale. 

'Comfy?' said Will. 

'You smell exquisite,' he replied, and Will's hands tightened on Hannibal's shoulders for an instant. 'I have often thought of tasting you, Will.' 

That made Will feel a little unsteady again, picturing the butcher block in the other room, but he held fast. 'Have you?' he said. 

'Quite often.' 

'What did you picture that being like?' 

'Sweet and rich, not bitter like most men,' Hannibal told him, his eyes still closed as if basking in the warmth of memory. 'A tang of salt, but not enough to overpower the bouquet. Fine curls over your mons, soft and inviting to the touch.' His hand followed his words, stroking lightly with the backs of his fingers, enjoying the texture of it. 'Unhurried hours spent in coaxing, making certain that every inch was dripping with readiness. Your impatience, at a point, with my lack of urgency. Your eager sounds, hips pressing forward as if beyond your conscious control, desperate at last for my hands, my mouth.' 

'Oh, god,' Will whispered. He wasn't even sure he'd said it out loud. 

'I am aware of what changes you have wrought,' said Hannibal, but there was no accusation in it, only statement, one leading to another. 'Your body needs ample time, now, and diligent devotion to go about welcoming its pleasure in the manner which it knows.' 

That was true. Will sometimes thought back with frustration on the days before he was on T, when the slightest arousal would set him off, squirming and slick, thighs pressing together just for the tease of the contact. Nowadays, getting off in anything close to comfort took a lot more patience than Will had to spare for himself. Sometimes he'd get into bed for the morning, vibrator pressed dry against his cock with a still hand, urging out a brief, dissatisfying orgasm to help him fall asleep, ignoring everything he wanted in exchange for it being guiltlessly _over with_. It was probably the least enjoyable way to try to enjoy oneself. 

'I adore this about you,' said Hannibal, startling Will out of his contemplation of his own youthful complacency, and what had become of him after. He'd been so quick to want more, _more_ of what he didn't have yet, that he'd always forgotten what simple, uplifting acts might be placed beyond his reach. 

'Why?' 

'The occasional tryst without time or planning can be enjoyable,' he said, 'but true artistry is rarely achieved under such conditions.' 

Will couldn't help but laugh. 'You're a sex artist?' 

'I am appreciative of powerful revelations of beauty, however they may be experienced. Quick, rough coupling is as a candle flame, which has its own fascination but is easily snuffed out; the slow, gradual building of a crackling fire is more to my tastes.' 

'How do you always talk like that?' said Will. 

Hannibal took another long breath in through his nose, out through barely-parted lips. The air tickled the hairs on Will's thighs. 'Would you prefer me to be coarse, Will? To tell you how at times when I watch you at your piano, my mind wanders to how such strong and dextrous fingers might look, drenched in your own slick and thrusting into yourself all too shallowly as you beg me to do it for you?' 

'That's hardly—' Will's breath caught in his chest as Hannibal cupped his palm over Will's mons, and the warmth of it pressed there, no seeking fingers or really any movement at all, made Will hum with unexpected pleasure. 'Hardly coarse,' he finished. 

'Shall I be crass? Tell you how I observed you before the mirrors, firm flesh so close to hand and trembling when I touched you? How I imagined kneeling before you there, tongue parting the way to taste you deeply, knowing that as I feasted you might see what I see in your reflection?' 

'Still not crass, either,' said Will. 'Try harder.' 

Hannibal's hand began to move against him, but only to splay his fingers to span the breadth of Will's pubic bone and then slowly cup them together again. Anyone else might have grown impatient to pick up the speed by now, or minutes ago, but Hannibal seemed to have no plans to stop any time soon. 'I've imagined you with your thighs spread across my lap, you fucking yourself down onto my cock as I sheath my fingers in your cunt, tugging at your own cock until you cry out and say that it's too much sensation to bear.' 

'Now that's just plain _vulgar_ ,' said Will, smirking. 'Didn't know you had it in you. Guess I owe you a drink.' 

Hannibal looked up at him, and Will saw for the first time how wide his pupils had grown, as if Will was the only distant flicker of light in a darkened place. 'I could drink of your scent, and that only, and be sustained.' 

A laugh escaped Will, delighted and taken-aback. 'Nice to know you can flip between double penetration wank fantasies and romance. That's my kind of show.' Will felt Hannibal's smile against the edge of his inner thigh, and assumed the stance he'd taken when Hannibal had measured his inseam. 'Better?' 

'Blissful.' Hannibal tilted his head, moving his hand away, and Will was about to protest that hey, he was enjoying that, just as Hannibal opened his mouth and a slow coil of intense, delicious warmth flared against Will's skin from his breath alone. 

Will made a soft sound through his teeth. 'You _are_ good at this.' 

'My only aim is to be a conduit for your pleasure, Will. Nothing more.' 

Will frowned. 'Not that it's a contest or a...' He swallowed, remembering Alana's questions in her office, suspicious about the provenance of the watch. 'A _transaction_. But what about yours?' 

'Mine stems from yours. My pleasure is what I give to you, and observe from you in return.' 

'Cyclic,' said Will. 

'Yes.' 

'I do call it that, by the way,' Will reassured him. 'I'm not put off by the word cunt. It _is_ crass. So's cock. The words go together nicely, so I guess I'm lucky to have both.' 

'You are blessed,' said Hannibal softly, so softly that perhaps Will wasn't meant to hear at all. 

'So, allegedly, I could ask you for whatever I wanted.' 

'Always, Will.' 

'Even things I don't know that I absolutely want, but I know I want to try?' 

'Of course.' 

Will wove his fingers through Hannibal's hair, closing his eyes, imagining what range of events that would lead to. Euphoria and tears and blood. 'I like that idea.' 

'As do I, very much.' Hannibal's breath was still hot against Will's curls. 'Your legs are trembling.' 

'Yeah, I was wondering when you'd notice.' 

'You are truly the most responsive man I've ever touched,' Hannibal told him, almost in disbelief. 'The lightest caress leaves you reeling.' 

'Touch-starved,' said Will. He left unspoken the comparison to a stray that had been kicked, flinching at any movement in its direction, predicting a blow. 

'It isn't only that. You bend toward my touch without thinking, like a flower follows the sun.' 

'I don't know if I'm a living thing,' said Will. 'Maybe a pressed flower, if I'm one at all. Flattened out and going brown at the edges.' 

'Nor am I light-wreathed Helios. My chariot's wheels have strayed from the heavens.' 

'I prefer you down here.' 

Will was quiet for a moment, enjoying the tingling, all-over sparkle of his nerves from the attention, the closeness. Then he said, 'Anything I want?' 

'Anything, Will, I promise you.' 

Will's grip tightened marginally in Hannibal's hair for just a second before using it to tip his head back, meeting his eyes. 'Suck my cock.' 

Hannibal's eyes fell closed in a sweet, subtle smile. 'Of course.' 

He began by centering himself before Will, nuzzling against the tops of Will's thighs as before, his nose now slipping along the line where thigh joined hip, against the curls he had stroked there. The tip of his nose dipped to touch the parting of flesh that was the center line, and he breathed, a low noise furling from deep in his chest as he let it out. Some people made that sound in response to the aroma of good wine, or rich coffee. Something to be savored and lingered over. Luxury. Decadence. 

Will felt hot breath flare briefly again before the sensation was overtaken by the soft press of Hannibal's tongue. Hannibal didn't jab or seek too quickly to go about his task, simply felt, determining the extent of his current position without venturing further. 

'No wonder you take three hours to dine,' Will commented, remembering the articles about Hannibal's infamous dinner parties. 'You're reveling in it. _Worshiping_ it.' 

'Mmmm.' The mere vibration of the sound set goosebumps trickling down Will's arms, and his hips almost twitched forward. 

'God, Hannibal,' Will said under his breath, 'I want you. I _need_ this.' 

He moved back just enough to speak, and Will could feel the brush of his lips as he shaped the words. 'Tell me what you want of me.' 

'Use your tongue to...' Will faltered. This, all this, honestly, was his first real foray into real-life shamelessness; what occurred onstage was in fun, and no one held you to what you'd said, who you'd flirted with, insinuations you'd made. But this was personal, precious in its rarity, and Will didn't want to fuck it up. 

Hannibal followed the instruction before Will had finished it, tongue parting the folds and curling back, forward and back, exploring the texture of the sensitive surfaces that lay within. 

'Oh,' Will gasped, clutching Hannibal's shoulders again. ' _Fuck_. That's it.' 

Hannibal continued, his movements unchanged, like he could go on all night if Will asked, and gladly. 

'I should lay down,' said Will. 'I don't think I can stay upright with that going on.' 

Hannibal sat back on his heels, allowing Will to get comfortable before rejoining him. 'Will you raise your knees?' he said. 

Will did so. 'Like that?' 

'Perfect, thank you. You may, of course, move them again if you find yourself inclined.' 

He lay at the fork of Will's thighs, fingers drawing whorls over Will's hips until Will couldn't help but squirm. 'More,' Will told him. 'I want your mouth.' 

The repetition of before became a meandering journey, circles drawn round and round Will's cock, lines and crosses, helixes. Will was whimpering under his breath, clutching at the sheets, at one point putting his arm over his mouth to be quieter. 

Hannibal lifted his head. 'Please,' he said, 'if you care for what I do, don't silence yourself. I want to hear your voice.' 

'It cracks down the middle,' said Will. 'It gets higher.' 

'So does mine,' said Hannibal. 'Not the same, of course, but if I needn't feel shame for my own, then neither should you. We are both men, entitled equally to our expressions of pleasure.' 

Will was about to protest and elaborate, but stopped when Hannibal closed his lips around Will's cock and somehow both sucked and flicked underneath the head at the same time. 

'Fuck!' Will's hips moved, pressing up for more, more, and he didn't stop them, and didn't mentally berate himself to shut up and be more masculine, more reserved, because this wasn't anybody else, this was Hannibal. 'Fuck, yes, that's so _good_.' 

Hannibal continued for some time—it felt like hours but surely it couldn't have been—and Will let himself respond naturally, swearing he'd try it for Hannibal's sake, for Hannibal's enjoyment, and if he said something stupid then he'd stop. But every sound he uttered, every moaned blasphemy and encouragement and stuttered gasp for air, only seemed to spur Hannibal on. Pulsing suction, intermingled with long, flat swipes of his tongue, once or twice pressing just inside to twist and flicker and then withdraw just as quickly. Will was sure that if he hadn't been before, he must be dripping by now, sheets beneath them soaked, Hannibal's face a mess, but the angle wasn't right for him to see. 

'I want your fingers in my cunt,' Will ground out between moans, thighs shaking on either side of Hannibal's jaw. 'I need something inside me, I'm so empty. God, you _bastard_. How much stamina can you fucking have?' 

'I have _patience_ ,' said Hannibal, kissing his abdomen once, twice. 'I said I would give you anything you asked. I did not indicate the timeliness with which I would deliver it.' 

Will's noise of frustration was cut off by a surprised little yelp as Hannibal slid him down the bed a foot or so, Will's legs crooked over his shoulders and against his back, Hannibal's tongue swirling down and down, farther than it had thus far. 

Will's eyes flickered back in his head briefly, and the curse that rolled off his tongue was nearly a growl. ' _Fffffuck_ , Hannibal, yes...' 

Hannibal's tongue pressed inside, while one thumb circled over the head of Will's slippery little cock, alternating between gentle strokes and loose-fingered pinches sliding free as Will moved beneath him. 

Will could feel his cunt tensing around nothing—eager, begging for attention—but now he was happy to wait. 

'You're so good,' said Will, not caring how he sounded. 'You're so fucking _good_ , I've wanted you so much. The way you—ahh, right there!—the way you look at me, like I'm the only person you can see, like I'm _everything_. The way you touch me like you've always been doing it and know how much I like it, bending to fucking kiss my hand but you don't even kiss it because you haven't asked "Will, may I?"' He was dizzy, giddy from sensation, which Hannibal only continued to escalate. Will felt Hannibal's fingers spreading him apart just a little more, never entering, just easing the way for more of his mouth. Will's cock slipped between Hannibal's lips again, pointed tongue curling beneath Will's foreskin to drag against the delicate edge of his glans. 'Oh fuck, like that, I'm gonna come, don't stop, don't stop, _don't stop, don't_ —' 

Will's words fled him as he shook, biting his lip, eyes squeezed shut and his hands on either side of Hannibal's head, making sure he didn't move away too soon. But Hannibal remained without any urging from Will, still repeating the exact pressure and motion that Will had told him not to stop. 

When Will could speak again, his voice rasped from crying out. 'You're just never going to quit, are you? Christ, Hannibal, that's perfect, _you're_ perfect—' 

Hannibal slid two fingers into the warmth of Will's cunt, its walls still clenching out of Will's control, pulse still thudding from the orgasm that had yet to subside before Hannibal had begun to coax free an encore. 

His fingers curled just so, the right depth and pressure and accuracy, again and again as Will reached for him, clawed his shoulders as if Will might try to climb away down Hannibal's back, but why would he ever want to get away from this? A hiss of static, or the tide, filled Will's ears, and he didn't realize for some moments that beyond the range of his own bliss-blurred senses, he was laughing, breathless and at last without shame. 

Muscles clamped tight around Hannibal's fingers, spasms without pattern, reaching, _demanding_ he remain inside, and Will ground down into Hannibal's hand so insistently that he had to raise his head and stop sucking Will's cock. 

'Is that good, Will?' 

Will said something that didn't contain any actual language. 

'Do you like being overwhelmed? I enjoy doing it. You're magnificent like this, flushed dark, thighs glossy with your rapture and yet you can't seem to resist one more.' 

Will opened his eyes, his pupils nearly blacking out the iris entirely. 

'There is always one more, Will,' Hannibal told him. 'And you may always ask it of me.' 

Will seemed to fight through the fog of pleasure to break into a grin, and nod. Everything seemed simple, right now, and Hannibal was giving him what he wanted, and that was Right. 

Hannibal continued to press the precise spot that made Will's vision flash white; he rubbed circles, which Will also liked to an extraordinary degree; at last he took up a rapid _tap-tap-tap_ of his fingertips that made Will call out his name as another orgasm gripped him. And Will didn't notice, given the state he was in, but a slick, clear splash of fluid sluiced over Hannibal's hand. 

'Another?' Hannibal asked him. 

Will wasn't able to respond, and thus Hannibal gradually slowed the movement of his hand to utter stillness, and only then, having wound Will down into comfort, did he withdraw. 

Will returned to his mind some minutes later as Hannibal offered him a glass of water. 

'What was that?' Will said, still feeling unusually light-hearted. 

'Hmm?' 

'In your hand, awhile ago. Saw you do this.' Will made a cupped hand of his own. 'Are you... drinking out of your hand? After all that,' he said, carefully articulating his words in a manner than spoke of happy intoxication, 'I'm pretty sure you wouldn't mind drinking after me.' 

'You ejaculated,' said Hannibal mildly. 'By chance, I caught most of it.' 

Will frowned. 'That's not a myth, is it? I thought it wasn't. So may people seem to be able to.' 

'As a doctor I can confirm that no, it is not a myth.' 

Will nudged him with his foot. 'You should make a public service announcement.' 

'I'll consider it.' 

Hannibal kissed Will's hand, properly this time. 

Will couldn't stop smiling. 

* * * 

'I don't feel like a man most of the time,' Will murmured about an hour later, his face pressed against Hannibal's chest. 'A man equal to you, I mean. I feel like a prop. Everybody can tell it's not a real knife, even in the nosebleed seats.' 

'Rarely does one develop seamlessly from girlhood to manhood,' Hannibal said. 

'Got that right.' 

Hannibal stroked Will's hair, not absently but with an unshakeable focus, fingers toying with individual curls, winding and unwinding, soothing in circles. 

After a time he said, 'Are you yet a boy, Will?' 

Will didn't speak, but a sound left his throat. He grew a little tense in Hannibal's arms. 

'Have I misspoken?' Hannibal asked softly. 

'No,' Will admitted. It left him sounding like a blow had winded him. 'You said the right thing. That's the hard part.' 

Hannibal continued to pet Will's hair, fingers as reverent in their gentleness as they were with the finest of silks. 

'You're a good boy, Will,' he said. 

Will blinked hard, twice, telling himself not to be stupid about this. Be strong. This must be some kind of test. After everything earlier, after all the blood, after Will had let his guard down... How could Hannibal trust that Will wouldn't tell anyone? How could Will trust Hannibal this much, at all? How was he supposed— _allowed_ —to feel? 

Hannibal kissed Will's forehead. 'Beautiful boy,' he said, his low voice thrumming exquisitely into Will's skull, all the way to the very back where the darkness stood vigil, waiting. 

He didn't acknowledge Will's tears, nor did he ignore them. Hannibal only held him, didn't ask, didn't delve. He simply accepted. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Please,' said Bedelia, 'for your sake and for the sake of my conscience, be careful.'
> 
> Will frowned, making a bit of a show of not suspecting anything, himself. As in their prior conversation on the subject of Hannibal, he said, 'What's that supposed to mean?'
> 
> Bedelia sighed, closing her eyes for a moment as if steeling herself. 'I know him.'

Hannibal spread the business cards out in rows on his kitchen counter. 

_People who grope me or any other girl here._ Four cards. _If somebody's shitty to one of the bartenders._ Ten cards. _When people catcall the singers._ Three cards. 

_People who make Will unhappy._

Hannibal sorted the others into his Rolodex in order of importance, but tucked the final card into his pocket. 

* * * 

Red light from behind the softly drifting curtain. Hannibal, gloved in blood, his fingers leaving streaks of gore across the keys of Will's piano. Will desperately reaching for him, seeing that beneath the lid a thousand furious hands rose up like the water of the lake, neatly severed at the crook of the arm, the strings of the piano thrumming beneath. Revulsion and arousal fought for control as Will felt himself slipping, trying to hold on. Hannibal ignored him, continued to play a chilling waltz, the piano sounding _wrong_ , out of tune and warped with age, each new measure accompanied by a distant cry and the sound of flesh being sundered. 

Will woke with a scream. 

'Hey! _Will!_ Whoa there, breathe. It's okay, you're safe.' 

He struggled to focus his eyes. 

Reality slid into place. Margot was still here; Abigail had gone back to her own apartment, after a more than week of Will worrying over her had started to drive her up the wall. 

'Sorry,' Will said. 

'I'll live,' said Margot, getting up to get Will a glass of water. 'How many is this?' she said from the kitchen. 

The dogs looked at him with half-awake concern as he sat up in bed. 'Eleven.' 

'Eleven nightmares in two weeks.' She came back in and handed Will a cup. 'I thought the music was supposed to help with that.' 

'It did. It _does_.' But that was before Will had been party to the disposal of a corpse, only to see it again later, in the flesh. That was before Will had pressed against Hannibal in the dark, feeling fulfilled for the first time since he'd become himself, knowing that the hands that coaxed pleasure from Will's body had, moments before, been taking apart someone else's. 

He hadn't told Margot, and he certainly wasn't going to tell Abigail. Will had no idea how he would even bring it up. _Hey, so our future boss cut up your brother/the guy you murdered and then we fucked, and I felt alive again because I've got some kind of sick murderer fetish_ wasn't the kind of thing you mentioned casually during intermission. 

'I think you should talk to Alana,' said Margot, sitting cross-legged on the bed by his feet. Her arm was out of the sling, now, the black cast still holding her torsion fracture together. 

'I can't,' said Will, shaking a couple aspirin from the bottle on the nightstand. 

'Why not?' 

'She's not my therapist anymore.' Or anyone's. Not since glass had rained around her, mingling with the downpour. 

'Except she kind of is, dumbass.' 

Will pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes until sparks shot through the blackness. 

_Aren't you two friends?_

_We are. That's how I know there's more than one side._

How much did Alana know? 

'I'll think about it,' he said. 

* * * 

Thanksgiving came and went, and soon after, Baltimore's social elite sat side by side in Hannibal's dining room. The host rose, glass in hand. 

'In this season, many Americans celebrate with a meal,' he began, scanning the faces of his friends. 'And in so doing they embrace a fiction, built over time to soothe the guilt of the conquerer. Our celebration tonight, the fellowship we feel with one another at this table, is the opposite. I invite you to feast together in my house, but in so doing I compel you to embrace the truth: that we nourish ourselves upon death. The endurance of our society is built upon those who have fallen before us. There are no turkeys here tonight.' A few guests cracked a smile. 'We dine upon the elements we would choose to forget in favor of the beautiful whole. To death.' 

Those assembled echoed the toast, and Hannibal took his seat as the meal began. 

'Hannibal,' said Basia Komeda, 'A little bird told me that you've taken an interest in my favorite night spot.' 

'More that the interest has taken me,' he replied. 'It is an alluring establishment.' 

'What are we talking about?' said Luke Dreyfuss (curator) from a few seats down. 

'The _Beau Morgue_ ,' said Basia with relish. 

'Surely not,' said Patricia Reynolds (heiress). ' _That_ spooky old dive? Hardly to your usual taste.' 

Charity Rhys-Davies (soprano) shook her head. 'If I've learned anything about Hannibal, it's that his tastes are a lot broader than any of ours.' 

Hannibal gave her a nod of appreciation. 'Though I hope, as always, to expand one's horizons.' 

Basia took a sip of her wine. 'It really is delightful, if you let your guard down enough to appreciate it.' 

'You only go because you can't convince your menagerie to tag along to the opera,' said Estavan Otero (cellist). 'They'd start a riot.' 

'An orgy,' added Roland Bryce (lawyer). 

' _Hmm_ -mm,' said Basia, smiling. 'Guilty as charged.' 

'I went for Curse Night,' Charity confessed. 'I really admire their performers. Imagine jumping around like that while singing, or playing horns. The breath control is impeccable.' 

'As are the costumes!' said Basia. 'Their little piano man has been looking mighty sharp of late, I wonder whose fault _that_ is? I'd recognize that style anywhere.' 

Hannibal finished a bit of tartare before answering. 'You've caught me.' 

'If I know you, you've got _plans_ for that boy.' 

'Personal,' Hannibal remarked. 

'Accurate,' said Basia, eyes bright with amusement. 'The look on your face tells me everything I need to know.' 

Hannibal chuckled, and conversation turned to other things. 

* * * 

_I've always been told to remember this_

_Don't let a fool kiss you_

_Never marry for love_

He'd started out slow and soft, but there was an edge to his voice, now, a blade of bittersweet nostalgia. 

_He was hard to impress_

_He knew everyone's secrets_

_He wore her on his arm_

_Just like jewelry_

_He never gave but he got_

_He kept her on a leash_

_He's not the kind of wheel_

_You fall asleep at_

Will leaned into the notes, eyes closed, letting his voice go as quiet or as harsh as felt right at the moment. His head was aching, but he could push through it. 

_But now she's dead_

_Forever dead_

_Forever dead and lovely now_

_Come closer, look deep_

_You've fallen fast_

_Just like a plane on a stormy sea_

It was Will's birthday. 

_She made up someone to be_

_She made up somewhere to be from_

_This is one business in the world_

_Where that's no problem at all_

_Everything that is left_

_They will only plow under_

_Soon everyone you knew_

_Will be gone_

The day Will Graham had been born, and his former self had passed away. 

_And now she's dead_

_Forever dead_

_Forever dead and lovely now_

He'd introduced the song, which was a break from the band's usual style of just patter and playing. Will didn't look out at the audience, didn't want to catch anyone's eye. 'This is for any new men who've left a girl behind.' 

_I've always been told to remember this_

_Don't let a kiss fool you_

_Never marry for love_

_Everything has its price_

_Everything has its place_

_What's more romantic_

_Than dying in the moonlight?_

Most of the crowd had fallen into a hush of attention, conversations ceased, moved by the emotion in Will's voice. 

_Now they're all watching the sea_

_What's lost can never be broken_

_Her roots were sweet_

_But they were so shallow_

_And now she's dead_

_Forever dead_

_Forever dead and lovely now_

The upright, the guitar, the drum brush hiss dwindled away, leaving just Will and his piano. 

_And now she's dead_

_Forever dead_

_And she's so dead and lovely now_

* * * 

'Will, do you have a second?' Bedelia had come out of her dressing room, in street clothes, ready to leave for the night. 

He put the cap back on his water bottle. 'If this is about the flub during _Don't Get Around Much Anymore_ , I know.' 

'It's not that.' She leaned against the opposite wall of the passage. Will was starting to dread when people did that; lately it had always heralded a big change. 'Listen, Will. About Hannibal Lecter.' 

Will's heart jumped at his throat for a second. 'What about him?' 

'Please,' said Bedelia, 'for your sake and for the sake of my conscience, be careful.' 

Will frowned, making a bit of a show of not suspecting anything, himself. As in their prior conversation on the subject of Hannibal, he said, 'What's that supposed to mean?' 

Bedelia sighed, closing her eyes for a moment as if steeling herself. 'I know him.' The way she said it reminded Will of his own breathless words. _I want to know you. All of you._

'So does Jack,' said Will, deliberately misunderstanding. 'So does Alana.' 

'I'm sure Alana has her reasons for keeping him happy.' 

_That_ wasn't ominous at all. 'And you didn't?' 

'Oh, I did!' Bedelia laughed at herself, a little bitterly. 'I was his star patient for years. A success story. Molded into precisely the form of stability he felt was _apt_.' 

'You make him sound like some kind of evil mastermind,' Will pointed out. 'Melodrama doesn't look good on you without the stage lights, B.' 

She shook her head, like someone faced with a child who had yet to learn some simple, easy truth. 'He asked me to follow, and I went.' 

Will didn't reply, feeling the dim light of the passage flicker into deeper shadow. 

'I went,' Bedelia repeated. 'And everything I had worked for, everything I had built of my life lay slaughtered on the altar of his ego.' 

'Bad break-up, huh?' said Will, though he knew he shouldn't, knew it would set her off still more. 

'Tell me, Will.' She pushed off from the wall and stepped closer, her voice soft so as not to be overheard by the band guys a little way along the passage who were looking at something on the bassist's phone. 'Does he give you pretty things? Does he soothe you with sweet words like wine until you can't remember how long you've been _dead drunk_ from it?' She put her hand on the wall next to Will's shoulder, hemming him in. 'Do you ache for him?' 

'Pretty sure that's none of your business,' Will ground out. 

'Just remember that no matter how,' she took a breath, ' _sweetly_ he completes you, every word is a knife. Every caress is calculated to elicit what he wants.' 

'All that and he's going to be your boss, too?' said Will wryly. 'Tough break.' 

'No,' she said, stepping back at last. 'He isn't.' 

She left, leaving Will mere seconds before his watch beeped the hour, signaling his return to the stage. 

* * * 

Alana slid the tablet across the desk. 

_**MEAT MOGUL MISSING!**_

_It has come to the attention of this reporter that Mason Verger, 33, heir to the Verger Meat Packing dynasty and known eccentric, vanished some weeks ago. Verger, who typically kept a well-armed guard close at hand when he ventured out in public, left Muskrat Farm unaccompanied for a night on the town,_ _**and never returned.**_

_Little is known about the circumstances of his disappearance, since it was believed at first that Verger had simply gone off on a holiday jaunt without warning._ _And perhaps, indeed, he has._ _But an anonymous source has informed this publication that Margot (formerly Caesar) Verger, twin to the missing billionaire, recently underwent surgery in Philadelphia; her brother visited her to convey his sympathy and to act as a comfort to his beloved sibling during her time of need. His precise whereabouts afterward are unknown. We at Tattle Crime reached out to Ms Verger for comment, but in her own words, Ms Verger hoped this reporter would 'die in a fire.'_

_Updates to follow as new information arises._

'"Reached out to Ms Verger for comment"?' said Alana, taking the tablet back. 

'Well, _that's_ a lie,' said Margot. 'She hasn't "reached out" to me about this shit at all.' 

Alana sighed. 'But you did speak to her.' 

'Yeah, right before closing on Curse Night. She was asking intrusive questions about Will, so I made sure she hit the pavement in a hurry.' 

'And did you tell her to go die in a fire?' 

'Who wouldn't?' Margot rolled her eyes. 'But I'm pretty sure that was _before_ my brother decided to play hide-and-seek, otherwise she would have brought it up. Frankly, all this is fuckin' news to me.' 

'All right, so she fudges when and why people have told her things. I'm not surprised. Do you have any idea what Mason might be doing?' 

'Oh, sure, we sync our calendars so we can make time for our fun little chats.' Margot gave her a brief glare. 'I haven't seen him since he snapped my radius, and I don't intend to.' 

'Right.' Alana closed her eyes, taking a deep breath and letting it out. 'We all know the drill for police involvement. If they come knocking, have somebody present to back you up if at all possible, whatever they're asking.' 

'I know.' 

'They can't take you in for questioning without a good fucking reason.' 

'I know.' 

Alana tapped the desk with one finger for emphasis. 'And there _is_ no reason for anyone to suspect you of having done something illegal. No one knows about the abuse. You don't give a shit about the billions, and you've been disowned anyway. There's no way you'd legally be able to get your hands on Mason's inheritence by way of some kind of disappearing act, so that pretty well crosses you off the list if they suspect foul play.' 

'I _know_ , Bloomers.' Margot put her hands over Alana's, cast and all. 'We got this.' 

They looked at each other across the desk for a long moment, then Alana looked away, clearing her throat, moving her hands. 'Well. That's sorted out.' 

'All our ducks in a row,' Margot agreed. 

'If it comes down to it,' said Alana, 'if there's a specific date and time they try to pin down on you and you weren't on the schedule, say we were fucking.' 

Margot raised her eyebrows. 'We weren't.' 

'Say you were at Will's, then.' 

'I'd rather we were fucking.' Margot smirked at her. 

'Just—' Alana made a little noise of frustration. 'Now is not the time. Aren't you in the next set? Get your ass out there.' 

'You sure you don't want my ass to stay in here with you?' 

'Get out of my office, princess.' 

Margot did, and when the door closed, Alana slouched back in her chair, shaking her head and smiling. 

* * * 

After closing, while the bartenders conspired in the kitchen over something to do with the special occasion, Will sat at the piano, holding its wooden spoon. He put it back in the groove where a music book ought to go, and sang to himself with the mic off, playing pianissimo. 

_Willow weep for me_

_Willow weep for me_

_Bend your branches down along the ground and cover me_

He hadn't played it in years, hadn't felt as unsure of what was going to become of his life, but the notes came back to him like it was yesterday. Like he was still at the music shop three miles from his middle school, playing until they locked up and sent him home. 

_Listen to my plea_

_Hear me, willow, and weep for me_

_Gone my lovely dreams_

_Lovely summer dreams_

_Gone and left me here_

_To weep my tears along the stream_

Hannibal had just arrived, and Abigail greeted him. 

'Thanks for coming,' said Abigail quietly. 'I know you've been busy, but I think Will would like it if you're here.' 

'I was happy to make the time.' Hannibal ushered her into a hug, having read the suggestion in her posture. 'How are you, Abigail?' 

'Oh, I'm all right! I passed the knife skills exam.' 

'Wonderful! Even your citrus?' 

'Even this hard little angry lime that kept trying to get away.' She grinned. 'Thanks for the help.' 

'Any time.' 

Up onstage, alone in his own world, Will didn't see them. 

_Sad as I can be_

_Hear me, willow, and weep for me_

_Whisper to the wind and say that love has sinned_

'Do you think it's appropriate to have brought a gift?' Hannibal asked. 

Abigail made a so-so gesture with her hand. 'All of us got him presents, but he gets weird about one-on-one affection sometimes, so like, it's good that we're all doing it as a group.' 

'Does our Will not like surprises?' 

'He doesn't like feeling like he owes people. Even if it's a gesture people want to make, and don't expect anything in return.' 

_To leave my heart a sign_

_And crying alone_

_Murmur to the night_

_Hide her starry light_

_So none will find me sighing, crying_

_All alone_

Jack came out of the kitchen and spotted them. 

'Hannibal! Good to see you, it's been a hectic few weeks.' 

'Bella has been in touch,' said Hannibal, saving Jack from explaining. 

'So how are you getting used to the place?' 

'I fear I haven't devoted as much time to it as I've wished to,' Hannibal said, glancing up at the stage where Will played on, barely audible over the sound of nightly clean-up and the strains of conversation from the kitchen. 'But that will change with time.' 

'It's not like we're skipping town tomorrow,' Jack pointed out. 'You've got awhile yet.' 

_Weeping willow tree_

_Weeping sympathy_

_Bend your branches down along the ground and cover me_

'Where shall I put this?' said Hannibal, indicating the bag of gifts he'd brought with him. 

'Come on back to the kitchen, that's where the party starts.' 

'I made the cake,' Abigail told Hannibal. 'I hope it gets a passing grade.' 

'I'm certain it will.' 

_Listen to me plead_

_Hear me, willow, and weep for me_

_Willow_

_Willow_

_Weep for me_

The notes trailed off and upwards, unresolved. 

'Well, come on, birthday boy,' said Margot, who'd been leaning against the edge of the stage to listen. 'I hear there's a cake with your name on it.' 

'Oh, god,' said Will, but he got up anyway. 

'At least we're good singers...?' said Margot with a shrug. 

As was Beau Morgue tradition, they sang him the Birthday Dirge, led and directed in a funereal pitch by Zeller (who was holding a straw as a baton), while Will winced and groaned, covering his face as he laughed. When they reached the line _we brought linen, white as cloud; now we'll sit and sew your shroud,_ Will peeked through his fingers to sneak a look at Hannibal, whom he hadn't seen or even dared to text since the night Will had climbed up the fire escape behind Atelier de Sang. Hannibal was giving him a look that might have been fondness or might have just been thoughtful, but wasn't singing. Will wondered if it was because he couldn't carry a tune, or if he simply didn't know the words. It wasn't likely Hannibal would have encountered a song like this, without the Morgue stiffs being the ones to introduce him. 

Cake followed: red velvet, with only a few stray crumbs smudged pink in the white frosting. 

'You gotta make a wish,' said Katz. 'For _yourself_. It's a good day to be a little selfish.' 

Will blew out the candles in one sweep of breath. 

Bedelia was not present, having left after the third set when her numbers were finished, but she'd left Will a bag of expensive coffee for his French press, and somewhat bitingly specific instructions for how to brew it properly. Will tried to forget their conversation about Hannibal, tried to live in this moment and no other. 

'Who told her I don't know how to do it?' 

Margot twiddled her fingers at him. 'You really needed the help. She likes telling people what they're doing wrong. Win-win.' 

'Glad to be of service,' Will joked. 

Jimmy, Zeller, and Katz gave him some vintage blues records; Alana, Jack, and Bella (looking tired, but in attendance) presented him with a beautiful new pitch pipe; Margot had teasingly bought him an opera-length cigarette holder, because _if you're going to keep bumming cloves off me, you should look sexy doing it._ The Theological Accident, who hadn't stuck around for the party, had nevertheless left a note informing Will that the entire night's tips were his. Abigail had assembled a little glass-topped box of bits and pieces for Will's fishing flies—a splinter of antler, tiny bones, and a lock of her own hair among them. 

Will turned, at last, to the final gift: a stack of familiar flat boxes, which he knew would be lined with black tissue paper. 

'Oh, come on,' he said, not really meaning it. 'Haven't you taken over my wardrobe enough?' 

'Impossible,' said Hannibal, making Alana laugh. 

'He's like that,' she said. 'Let him measure an inch, and he takes a mile.' 

Will tried to pretend that he wasn't blushing. Tried to forget all the seemingly apparent reasons he should resist the pleasure of Hannibal giving him things. 

'You needn't open them now,' Hannibal told him. 'A replacement for the suit I ruined. It seemed only fair.' 

'Ruined? _You_ , ruin a suit?' Jack raised an eyebrow. 'What'd you do, cut it off of him?' 

Will hid his face again, and Bella whapped her husband lightly on the arm. ' _Jack_.' 

Hannibal bore the teasing with a little more aplomb. 'We went out one evening to get to know each other better, and Will was—due to my influence, I confess—a little overdressed for the choice of activities.' 

'Oh, now _I'm_ curious,' said Jimmy. 

'Did you fall in a lake?' said Abigail. 

Hannibal's eyes crinkled at the corners. 'Something like that.' 

When the two bottles of champagne had been finished between the lot of them, the party wound down and Will hugged everyone goodbye. Abigail was to follow Margot back to her apartment and help carry up her stuff from Will's, Margot having finally decided (not through any implication on Will's end) that it was high time she stopped monopolizing his bed. 

Hannibal lingered, saying he'd lock up. 

'Happy birthday, Will,' he said, when they were the only ones left. 

Will was piling all the presents into a cardboard box so he could take it out to his car (a mid-'90s pickup he'd bought from someone at a farm near his house last week). 'It's not my literal birthday,' he said. 

Hannibal tipped his head a little. 'No?' 

'The one on my birth certificate says early March.' 

'Very little on your birth certificate is accurate,' said Hannibal. 

'You've got a point.' He ran out of presents to put in the box, and they stood for a moment in silence. 'What have you been up to?' Will said at last. 

'Dinner parties, other social engagements. Completing the winter wardrobe of a gentleman client before he leaves for the Continent.' A slight shift of his shoulders, not quite a shrug. 'Things that require attention from time to time.' 

'Yeah, I've read about your dinner parties,' said Will. 'I looked you up awhile back.' 

'Did you?' 

'Fascinating stuff.' A beat. 'You used to work with trans kids.' And personality disorder cases. 

'I did. Often the most needful work is neglected by others in my field, due to stigma within the medical community or one's own bias.' 

Will rested the heels of his hands against the counter, as if to push off from it. Able to find an escape route if necessary. 'Is that how Alana got started? Your influence?' 

Hannibal made a considering noise. 'That, among other reasons. She has mentioned that at first your relationship was professional.' 

Couldn't ended up more than that, at one time, but Will didn't say it out loud. 'I wasn't a very good patient. I have...' he swallowed against the word before he could say it, ' _difficulty._ Maintaining appropriate boundaries.' 

'I've missed you,' said Hannibal, changing the subject. Or maybe he hadn't. 

'Can't have been that much of a trial.' 

'It can, and it was.' 

Will rubbed the back of his neck, looking away. His headache was back. 'You know where to find me.' 

'Yet not where to find you, alone.' Hannibal took a step nearer, to lean against the edge of the counter next to Will. 

'You could've just texted me,' said Will. 

'So could you.' 

'Are we really having this discussion?' 

'What would you prefer to speak about?' 

Will shook his head, huffed a laugh. 'What _is_ this?' 

_I want this, whatever this is._

'What do you want it to be?' said Hannibal. 

'God, will you just... answer a fucking question, please?' 

Hannibal looked at Will, who was avoiding his eyes. 'About what you said,' Hannibal began. 

'When?' When Will offered to help destroy evidence of a murder? When Will had begged to be touched, begged for Hannibal's hands and lips and tongue, said he wanted him, wanted to know everything? 

'In the upper room.' Hannibal paused. 'It would be unethical, I believe, to hold someone to confessions of feelings that were made in moments of—' 

'I lied,' said Will, cutting him off, lying. What word had Hannibal been about to say? Moments of passion? Shock? Weakness? 

Hannibal searched his expression, then said, 'I'm sorry to hear that, Will.' 

Will breathed out through his teeth. 'Yeah, me too.' 

'Is there anything you wish to discuss?' 

'Just go. Please.' Will shut his eyes. 'It's been a long night.' 

'I shall see you tomorrow evening,' said Hannibal. 

'I don't really care,' said Will, turning away, lips pressed tight together. 

When Hannibal left, Will slid down against the counter to sit on the floor, where he supposed Mason Verger's heart had pumped its life out onto the tiles. 

_I could ask you for whatever I wanted._

_Always, Will._

_Even things I don't know that I absolutely want, but I know I want to try?_

Will had asked him to leave, and Hannibal had left. 

_Of course._


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will knew he was overthinking it. He'd told Hannibal to leave, and he did. That didn't solve the problem of having to work with the guy at some point in the future, but it was nice to know that Hannibal would lay off if and when Will asked him to.
> 
> But Will didn't want him to lay off, not really. Didn't want to never feel that zing of pleasure again, Hannibal's flirtation, his tips, his gifts. His touch.

Bella sat up in bed, Will in the armchair beside it. Over the cotton quilt in her lap, she laid out seven cards into the shape of a horseshoe. 

'You sure you're feeling up to this?' 

Bella waved away the question. 'It's comforting to get a peek into other people's futures.' 

'Don't turn them all over at once,' said Will. 'I get antsy.' He didn't want to see what would happen before someone could guide him there. 

'I remember.' 

She turned over the card at the bottom left, the past: The Fool. 

'Oh, that's encouraging,' said Will with a self-conscious laugh. 

'The Fool is always the beginning of some new stage of your life,' said Bella. 'Striding off into the unknown. Facing your fears.' 

That sounded about right. 

In the position of the present, Bella turned over The Moon. 'Deception and doubt. Not being able to see a situation for what it is. There's definitely tension, here, mostly to do with unrealistic expectations.' 

'This isn't making me feel very confident,' Will joked. 

'Hush. You can't see the big picture yet.' 

The card for the immediate future was the Ace of Swords. 

'Aren't swords bad?' said Will. 

'No card is _bad_. Swords deal a lot with strife, yes, but there's equally positive and negative interpretations.' She paused a moment for a few breaths. 'This is a change of heart. Making radical decisions on impulse, seeing through deception.' She tapped The Moon. 'So we're seeing some continuity.' 

'This one's what I'm thinking about, right?' Will asked as Bella turned over the card at the top of the horseshoe. 

'And what the spread is referring to.' It was the Six of Cups. 'You feel like the past is repeating itself.' 

Will swallowed. 'A little, yeah.' 

'But connections and experiences you had in the past are bringing forth new elements in the present,' Bella went on. 'Sometimes it feels counterintuitive. Prior suffering that brings great happiness, bad dreams turning to good ones.' She turned the next card, a person involved. 'The King of Coins is the ultimate provider figure. He brings success and luxury into the equation, and is incredibly patient.' 

'I figure I need that,' said Will. 

'He's slow to anger, and has an earnest quality to his character; you feel like he's always being honest with you, even when it's hard, even when it hurts. And he's as proud of your achievements as his own.' Bella gave Will a little smile. 

'I remember the next ones are an obstacle and the outcome,' said Will. 

'Well, check you out!' she teased him. 'You should have your own deck.' 

'I don't think I have enough room in my brain for seventy-eight cards and all the reversals,' said Will. 

Bella made a little noise of disagreement. 'I had a stack of index cards for reference, used it for twenty years. It's not some big mystical secret, just practice.' 

Will remembered having said something similar to Abigail, as he pointed at what notes to play with the handle of a wooden spoon. 

'Your obstacle is,' she turned the card, 'Death.' 

Will laughed. 'Right. Now we're on the same page.' 

'Death doesn't mean _literal_ death,' said Bella. 'It's about regeneration and rebirth, leaving behind your old patterns and fears for a new life. You're transitioning— _not like that_ , don't you smirk at me—' (Will did anyway), 'you're discovering an increased awareness of what you want out of life. Something's putting it into perspective for you, and a cycle is ending.' 

The outcome was The Hermit. 

'Again with the personal remarks,' said Will. 

Bella shook her head. 'It's right, though. You've been withdrawn, fearful of judgement, afraid to let others know your personal truth. But getting The Hermit at the end of a spread shows a return from isolation, sharing knowledge with others—even just _one_ person who understands. If you follow the path you've set for yourself, you'll feel a great sense of peace.' She gathered the cards back into the deck and shuffled. 'One more before you go?' 

'You're the one with the cards.' 

'This is a simple spread I do when I feel like I need an uncomplicated solution,' said Bella, laying out two cards, side by side. 'The question.' She turned over The Devil, 'and the answer.' The Lovers. 

Will looked down at the cards. 'Surely there's not a good side to The Devil.' 

'It's a tricky one. Your fear has created enemies everywhere you look, but see,' she pointed at the chains that bound the two human figures depicted, a woman and a man. 'They're not struggling, even as the Devil himself breathes down their necks. They've decided to stay bound to their adversary, even when it would be easy to slip their chains and be free. By not taking a risk, by not facing the truth, we remain trapped with monsters of our own making.' 

'So that's the question,' said Will. 'And I remember that The Lovers isn't actually about love.' 

'It can be, but that's not the point of it. The Lovers appears when you've found yourself at a crossroads, given the choice between between two paths. Choosing one means sacrificing the other. So do you want the familiar, or the unknown? Will you cling to the past, or embrace the future, no matter how scared you are?' 

'Complacency or progress,' said Will. 

'Exactly. There's your answer.' 

Will sighed. 'The answer is that I need to figure the answer out for myself?' 

It was Bella's turn to smirk at him, as she shuffled the cards back into the deck and put it away. 'The path doesn't magically become easier just because you picked it.' 

* * * 

_Your eyes may be whole_

_But the story I'm told_

_Is your heart is as black as night_

Abigail stood at the hostess podium, leaning back against it in a lull of customer traffic, to listen to Will sing. 

_Your lips may be sweet_

_Such that I can't compete_

_But your heart is as black as night_

'Excuse me,' said a woman's voice behind her. Abigail turned. 

'Hi,' said the patron. She had coral lipstick and a loud jacket. 'I'd like a table for one, please.' 

_I don't know why you came along_

_At such a perfect time_

_But if I let you hang around_

_I'm bound to lose my mind_

'Do you have a business card to enter the raffle?' said Abigail. 'Every first Friday of the month somebody wins five free rounds at the bar.' 

'How can I resist?' said Freddie Lounds, placing her card in the bowl before Abigail led her to an open table. 

_'Cause your hands may be strong_

_But the feeling's all wrong_

_Your heart is as black as night_

'Sweetie,' said Zeller, catching Abigail on her way back. 'You do know who that is, right?' 

'Nnno? Is she famous or something?' 

Zeller shook his head. 'She's a reporter for some crime blog, she's harassed Will and Margot before.' 

'Ah, shit,' said Abigail. 'I can't kick her out, I already seated her.' 

Zeller shook his head. 'There's a sign behind the bar for just such occasions. We have the right to deny anyone service, for any reason.' He sounded like he wished they had a baseball bat behind the bar, as well. 

'Maybe she just wants a drink...?' said Abigail, knowing that wasn't the point, feeling stupid for not having known who she was. But it's not like anyone had told her to keep an eye out for reporters. She hadn't had to worry about that for years, not since she moved out here to be with Will, not since she changed her name. Abigail had almost forgotten that they went after other people, too. 

'Yeah, maybe she can eat my entire ass,' said Zeller, glancing at the door. 'I'll escort her out, you've got customers waiting.' 

_I don't know why you came along_

_At such a perfect time_

_But if I let you hang around_

_I'm bound to lose my mind_

'Hey,' Zeller tapped Freddie Lounds on the shoulder and leaned down to be heard over the music. 'We don't serve hacks here, Lounds. Time to hit the road.' 

She looked deliberately affronted. ' _Excuse_ me? I'm a paying customer!' 

'You haven't paid for anything yet,' Zeller noted. 

'This is discriminatory!' 

_'Cause your hands may be strong_

_But the feeling's all wrong_

'So's emotionally blackmailing our people to get a handful of paragraphs of your fuckin' shock schlock,' said Zeller. 'If I need to, I'll get the boss out here. She's got twenty-seven screws holding her spine together and that's understandably lowered her _complete bullshit_ threshold.' 

_Your heart is as black_

_Your heart is as black_

Lounds got up. 'I could take this to court.' 

Zeller pointedly tucked her chair back in against the table and stood in front of it with his arms crossed. 'You do that, sunshine.' 

_Your heart is a black_

_As night_

As the crowd applauded at the end of the song and the Morgue's unwelcome guest made her way out, she said to Abigail, 'Take my card back out of the raffle, seeing as you people won't even let me have _one_ round.' 

Abigail shrugged. She'd already put it in the reject pile. 'Have a good night, ma'am! See you next time!' 

'Oh, piss off.' 

* * * 

Abigail went to Hannibal's shop the following afternoon, as they had made plans to have lunch together. 

'So this is The Other Drago's,' she said, looking up at the mural on the ceiling. It depicted Hermaphroditos in repose, surrounded by an honor guard of lithe satyrs, bunches of black grapes and pomegranates at his side. He was watched over from the trees by figures that Abigail assumed were Persephone and Hades. 

'So it is,' said Hannibal. 'Not many people know.' 

'Not many people have read all the old newspaper clippings Bella has in her scrapbook,' said Abigail. 'Oh! Speaking of which, I had an interesting raffle experience last night.' 

She told Hannibal about Freddie Lounds, and he listened intently. 

'I have seen some of her work,' he said. 'Ms Lounds seems to have a peculiar hunger for human misery.' 

'I couldn't think of a curse strong enough, after the guys at the bar told me about what she'd been saying to Will.' 

'She would go into the _makes Will unhappy_ pile, I agree.' 

'What kind of person thinks it's okay to bring up somebody's past like that, to... to _goad_ him about it? He's been through enough.' 

'I hear that Will didn't take the matter lightly, himself.' 

Abigail was quiet for a moment, running one finger down the back of the bronze elk in the bookcase. 

'I wish she'd _die_ ,' Abigail said under her breath. 

Hannibal stood behind her, a hand gently resting on her shoulder. 'Why oughtn't she?' 

* * * 

There was a knock at Will's door. 

'Good afternoon, Mr Graham,' said the cop on the porch, taking in Will's disheveled appearance. 'Sorry if I woke you.' 

'It's fine,' said Will, reading her name badge. 'What can I do for you, Officer Stuart?' 

'I have some questions pertaining to the disappearance of Mason Verger, may I come in?' 

Will had known this would happen eventually. 'Sure.' 

'Is there anyone else at home?' 

'Just me and the dogs.' 

Officer Stuart followed him inside, making note of the bed in the front room, the wave of dogs all eager to sniff at her, the feeling of emptiness from the rooms beyond. She decided to remain standing. 'Mr Graham, are you personally familiar with Mason Verger?' 

'I, uh.' Will frowned a little. 'I haven't met him, myself, but I know he's my friend Margot's brother. I work at a queer nightclub, we don't exactly travel in the same circles.' 

'Has Ms Verger ever spoken to you much about him?' 

'I mean, some. They're twins.' Will sat down in his armchair, completing the power imbalance that any investigating officer would want to achieve in a situation like this. All alone, house in the middle of nowhere, who knows what those dogs are trained to do. And Will had to think about another imbalance of power these days, too. A female cop out alone, talking to a strange man. 

The department hadn't sent an actual detective. That could mean a lot of things. 

'They don't always get along,' he added after a moment, 'especially since Margot was disowned.' 

'Do you know why that was?' 

Will shrugged. 'She's trans. She doesn't make any big secret about it, I mean, she's got a bumper sticker that announces it to anybody within fifty feet. I guess that didn't go over well with their folks.' 

Officer Stuart was being stared at hopefully by Banjo, Pickle, and Ghost, who assumed she must be here to deliver special treats. She did her best to ignore them. 'Does Mr Verger have any problems with her personally?' 

'Aside from his religious perspective? Not that I know of,' said Will, hating himself a little as he said it. 'Despite everything they've been through, Margot says he always goes on about how much he loves her.' 

'Can you think of any reason why Mr Verger would leave the country after visiting his sister in the hospital?' 

Will shook his head. 'Honestly? I don't know much about the guy. I mean, from what I've heard he seems a little... sudden, sometimes?' Will let out a breath, sounding at a loss. 'Your guess is as good as mine.' 

'Mr Graham, I understand you used to work homicide in New Orleans.' 

Will forced himself to stay relaxed, to not show tension in his jaw or his shoulders. 'About ten years ago, yeah.' 

'Why did you retire so early?' If she was asking she must know, just wanted to see what Will would say. 

'I got shot and stabbed and came out of the closet,' said Will mildly. 'That's a lot of shit to handle.' 

Officer Stuart nodded. 'Understandable, sir. Considering your history on the force, I trust that if anything seems fishy to you, you'll let us know.' 

'God, yeah, of course.' Will got out of his chair and took her card, looking politely concerned by the whole situation. 'Thanks for stopping by, Officer. I hope he turns up soon and this was all just,' Will made a wobbly hand gesture, 'Mason being Mason.' 

'Thank you for taking the time to answer my questions,' she said as Will showed her out, keeping the dogs in behind his legs. 'Have a good day, Mr Graham.' 

'You too.' 

Will waited until the car had pulled out of sight, then texted Margot. 

_just had the police drop by_

_Same. This morning._

_you okay?_

_I'm just worried, is all._ They were both mindful of the fact that their messages might, at some point, be subpoenaed. It might be strange, how naturally the deception came to both of them, but you had to lie to a lot of people to make your way in the world. _God, I hope they find him soon. I'm scared._

_i'm sure he's idk in the caribbean for the winter or something, just forgot to tell anybody bc he's himself_

_Yeah, he IS like that. You're right. Just... adfgfdsjkl why does he do stuff like this? WHAT A TIME to go off on a Magical Mystery Tour_

_you'll probably get a christmas card from some island resort like, haha suckers, you thought!!_

_Thanks Will. :)_

Will set his phone aside, got dressed to take the dogs out before work, then stopped, picking it up again. He opened the old messages from Hannibal. 

_You looked breathtaking last night._

Had he meant that the suit he'd made looked good on Will, or that Will looked good _in_ it? Could go either way. And it's not like Will didn't have evidence that Hannibal was attracted to him. 

_I wouldn't have offered if I suspected I could not get away._

Did that mean that Hannibal had an escape all planned out, in case Will told anyone about the murder, about what he'd done to the body? Or, hell, even what Will had been led to believe they were doing with the body in the first place. Could Hannibal cut and run so easily, like none of it mattered? 

Will knew he was overthinking it. He'd told Hannibal to leave, and he did. That didn't solve the problem of having to work with the guy at some point in the future, but it was nice to know that Hannibal would lay off if and when Will asked him to. 

But Will didn't want him to lay off, not really. Didn't want to never feel that zing of pleasure again, Hannibal's flirtation, his tips, his gifts. His touch. 

Will typed out a message and sent it, then turned his phone off for the drive into the city. 

_i missed you, too._

* * * 

'Okay, everybody,' said Alana as the band settled in for warmup and putting together the set list. 'Some news. Item the first: We've got cops sniffing around because Mason fucking Verger's decided to jettison himself into outer space or _some_ damn thing. If you find yourself under a swinging lamp, answer any questions honestly but remember Margot's our princess, got it?' 

There was a murmuring of 'Got it, boss.' 

'Item the second: We find ourselves short one Du Maurier.' 

'What?' 

'Is she sick again?' 

'Bedelia has left us,' said Alana grimly. 'Apparently she's not happy with the direction this establishment is taking, and she's put in her two weeks and cashed in all her vacation time on top of that, so she's basically already gone. We are moving forward with two singers until further notice. Days-off rotation will be changing, and we may have to incorporate a full night of pre-recorded into the week, maybe even a couple nights. Understand?' 

'What's her problem now?' said Jimmy, who was once again fixing the wobbly bar stool. 

'The stick up her ass,' said Alana. 'It is what it is.' 

'Hasn't she threatened to quit like,' Katz paused to mentally tot it all up, 'sixteen times before?' 

'Seventeen,' said Margot. 

Alana raised her hands, looking up as if beseeching the heavens. 'May this be the final time.' 

Again, Will found himself wondering how much Alana knew, but he tried to focus on the night ahead. Hannibal was going to be in attendance, he'd said. 

Will took the watch out of his pocket and put it on. 

He wanted to send a message. 

* * * 

The band led up with a long, perky intro that got dancers out on the floor and into the swing of it. Will scanned the crowd, spotted Hannibal at the table he preferred, a glass of wine before him as it had been on the first night. 

Will sang. 

_Another day, another night got me thinkin'_

_What is it with him, he's naturally moving slow_

_I see him at the corner bar, am I dreamin'_

_Surrounded by friends, it's got to end, I need to know_

_Am I just a night of lust, a lost temptation_

_Is someone like me his destiny he'll never know_

_I gotta find a way to show my expectations_

_He ends it where it begins but I won't let go_

Will wasn't sure if the character whose part he was singing was supposed to be Hannibal, or himself. Either way, it might make an impression. 

_I know you don't love me_

_But still I burn for you_

_I know you don't love me_

_This flame will die, it's true_

_My soul bared completely_

_Don't seem enough for you_

_I know you don't love me_

_But the message can't get through_

Will spun the measures out into another long break for dancing, improvising a little here and there with the band, taking cues from each other until they all led back around into a verse. 

_Any man can see that I'm worth the talkin'_

_Love can be bittersweet when a boy hears "no"_

_Opportunity knocks, but your doors don't open_

_But I feel a fire inside that's about to blow_

_So, sweep me off my feet and show me something different_

_You know all the tricks, come get your kicks, you know I'm game_

_You gotta understand a boy needs more than rrrromance_

_How many chances lost 'til you just run away?_

Will saw Aunt Basie among the dancers during the chorus, being spun back and forth between two of her paramours. She shot Will a glance and waggled her eyebrows, blowing him a kiss, making him grin. 

Speaking through the music always helped Will feel better, freer. Like things could work out. 

It felt honest. 

_Maybe I'm missing the telepathy_

_There's a disconnection, you don't think of me_

_I don't really care because I disagree_

_'Cause I'm the only part of you that you don't see_

The guys on bass and drums chimed in to shout-harmonize with Will on the repeat of the bridge, then dropped out again for the final chorus. 

_I know you don't love me_

_But still I burn for you_

_I know you don't love me_

_This flame will die, it's true_

_My soul bared completely_

_Don't seem enough for you_

_I know you don't love me_

_But the message can't get through_

They led right into a medley, from there, a weird but surprisingly functional mix of _I'm Beginning To See The Light, I Hadn't Anyone 'Til You,_ and an up-tempo, growling _Ne Me Quitte Pas_. 

At intermission, Will went off into the passage to stretch his hands and drink water, and found Hannibal waiting for him. 

Will could already feel a blush creeping up his neck. It was one thing to be honest out there, under the lights, and something else entirely back here, faced with the vessel for that honesty. 

_Will you cling to the past, or embrace the future, no matter how scared you are?_

'Hi,' said Will. 

Hannibal kissed him. 

In all that had gone on that night in the upper room, this hadn't. It wasn't too urgent, nor was it entirely leisurely; Will felt both anticipation for Hannibal's next move, and comfortably at peace with the idea that the kiss might end sooner than he expected. Will's free hand went to Hannibal's hip, thumb hooking into his waistband and pulling him closer, and Will let himself make little sounds of pleasure in the back of his throat as Hannibal's tongue gently parted his lips. 

This could go so badly, and Will knew it. Whatever this was, whatever he might become, it could end in nothing but disaster. But Will held on, never knowing when the walls might come down, destroying evidence, surrounded by fire. 

He felt dizzy when Hannibal stopped to let them both breathe, an unresolved chord still strung between them. They stood together, foreheads touching, sharing breaths. Will let his hand drop, and Hannibal took it, raising it to his lips for a brief kiss against the backs of Will's fingers. 

'You could've just texted me,' said Hannibal. 

'Don't steal my line,' said Will, and kissed him again. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'You do this weird thing,' said Will, 'where one minute you're all opinions, and the next minute it's all about what I want. What I think.'
> 
> 'Would you prefer me to be wholly selfish?'

Abigail Steinway was covered in blood. 

'Oh my god,' she whispered, trembling, a fierce smile on her face under the arterial spatter. 'Oh my _god_. That was amazing.' 

'You are,' said Hannibal, who had helped her guide the killing blow. 'We're far from finished. Do you remember what I told you?' 

She nodded. 'Hooks, drain, disembowel,' Abigail said, eyes closed, as if remembering something from her notes from culinary school. 'Joint, skin, portion, freeze.' 

'Very good.' Hannibal pecked a kiss on the top of her head. 'Shall we begin?' 

* * * 

Their kisses had kept Will going all night, and into the morning of what would probably be his last day off for awhile. He woke earlier than usual, surprised by how rested he felt; no nightmares, just a pleasantly disorienting dream about Hannibal's hands on him. Will spent half an hour in bed after waking from that, remembering what Hannibal had said he'd imagined, playing it out, his own fingers thrusting into himself all too shallowly as he begged in a whisper for Hannibal to do it for him. 

After that, coffee. Made properly, this time, it tasted better and stronger than it had been. 

Will felt better and stronger than he'd been, too. 

Last night as he counted the tips, Alana had set a tin box in front of him, red and white striped with a green label on the lid. 

'I don't like peppermint bark,' he said. 

'You're a heathen,' said Alana. 'It's not candy, it's from Bella. Late birthday present, she said.' 

Will opened the tin, which still smelled faintly of mint. Inside there was a stack of four-by-six index cards, corners soft and worn with use, held together with a hair tie. Alongside them was a Rider-Waite tarot deck. 

'Huh.' 

He read the note taped inside the lid. 

_No time like the present._

Now, Will opened the deck at his kitchen table and shuffled them, not used to the size of the cards, their glossy surfaces and crisp edges difficult to cut into each other. He got frustrated, ended up doing a granny shuffle and gathered them back into a pile. 

Will remembered back in college, when his roommate Gabe would read the cards for him. He'd gotten The Tower a lot, back then, and The Queen of Swords. 

Will laid out the question, and the answer. 

The Heirophant, reversed. Will checked the reference deck: identity crisis, a leader opposed to the status quo. 

The Three of Wands. Dreams being fulfilled due to fortunate timing. A sign to have courage in your convictions. 

Will put the deck away, tapping the end cards as he'd seen Bella do automatically so many times. He didn't know what that was supposed to achieve, but it seemed like part of the ritual. He picked up his phone. 

_hey_

It took awhile to get a response, and Will spent the time looking through his mail on the counter. Junk, junk, coupon newspaper thing, insurance stuff, junk. 

His phone buzzed. 

_Good afternoon, Will. How are you?_

_rested. what are you up to this freezing day_

_I've been helping Abigail with some schoolwork._

_she said you helped her pass knife skills_

_All her own efforts, I assure you._

Will's thumb hovered over the keyboard for a moment before he decided what to say. 

_will you teach me sometime_

_i mean i know how to gut a fish but that only gets you so far_

A long pause. Will started to regret having said anything, until, 

_It would be my pleasure. Perhaps you might come over for dinner, when you're free?_

_i'm free today_

_Sadly, I am not. Are you available Wednesday?_

_wednesday works_

_It's a date._

* * * 

Out of her sling, Margot was finally able to gesture with both arms again, and had picked a lot of lively numbers for her sets. 

_Ooh that man is like a flame_

_And ooh that man plays me like a game_

_My only sin is I can't win_

_Ooh I wanna love that man!_

'I can't believe B left us in the lurch,' Zeller grumbled. Most of the booze-hounds were at their tables or out on the dance floor, swinging each other around. The bartenders took the time to restock, rotate glasses to and from the kitchen, and kvetch. 

'I can,' said Jimmy. 'Thank god, I hate competing to be the biggest queen on the roster.' 

_Ooh that man is on my list_

_And ooh that man I wanna kiss_

'Ain't nobody like you, Jimmy,' said Katz. 'And anyway, it's not like she wanted to be stuck here forever.' 

Zeller nodded. 'I think she used to do opera or something.' 

'No, she just went to the opera a lot,' said Jimmy. 'Before we besmirched her character,' he added, rolling the R's with delight. 

_My only sin is I can't win_

_Ooh I wanna love that man!_

'What _did_ she used to do for a job?' said Katz. 

'Therapist,' said Zeller, darkly. 'Can you imagine that? I'd off myself.' 

_Someone call a doctor_

_Need some help to rescue me_

_One second I'm thinkin' I must be lost_

_And he keeps on findin' me_

'Why do so many fuckin' therapists end up here?' said Katz with a passionate gesture. 'I feel like missed some important memo.' 

'"Psychology and Big Band go together like tits and ass"?' Jimmy suggested. 

'Nah,' said Zeller. 'Gotta be the curse.' 

As the song bled into scat-singing, Abigail showed up, having come straight from her evening class. 

'How's little man doing up there?' Katz asked. One of the bus boys had been playing host, tonight, until Abigail could clock in. 

'He's cute,' said Abigail. 'My skirt suits him.' 

'Damn right,' said Katz. 'Oh my god, sweetie, what happened to your hand?' 

Abigail looked down at it, like she'd forgotten. 'Oh. Culinary war wounds. Things slip, you kind of stop caring after the hundredth time.' 

'You can't just stick a Hello Kitty bandaid on that and call it a day, come on. I'll get out the kit.' 

Up under the lights, Margot bowed and started in on banter while the band guys took a break for water. 

'Some of you may be familiar with Miss B,' she said. There were a few cheers. 'Well, stop it. She's gone on to greener pastures.' Gasps. 'Yes, folks, raise your glasses in memoriam. Our Bedelia was a good dog, so we made sure she went upstate to a nice farm where she can play with other altos.' 

Will was noodling out a tune at the piano. 'So what does that mean for you and me, princess?' 

'It means,' Margot gave the audience a wicked grin, 'that you fuckers are _stuck with us!'_

* * * 

'Please come in,' said Hannibal, bringing Will in out of the cold. 'Dinner is nearly ready. A light repast before your performance tonight.' 

'Jesus, this place is huge,' said Will. 'I think six of my house could fit in here.' 

'I am lucky enough to have a room for every purpose.' Hannibal took Will's coat, and saw what he was wearing beneath. ' _Will_.' 

Will looked at him innocently. 'What?' 

It was the first suit, the suit they'd gone out on the lakes in. Will had had it laundered, snipped the snags so they weren't visible (at least to someone who was used to snags), and carefully repaired the tear in the left knee. 

'You needn't have kept it,' said Hannibal. 

'I wanted to.' Will followed him through the house—the staggeringly beautiful house—and into the kitchen, which was steely and cool. The smell of thyme and other spices washed over him as Hannibal went to mind something at the stove. Will leaned against the counter to watch. 'I thought maybe you'd like to see it again.' 

'All my creations live on in my mind,' said Hannibal, tipping a few drops of something from a small bottle into the skillet, which flared briefly and smelled much more savory than before. 

'Thank you,' said Will, 'for the watch. It's beautiful. _Impractical_ , but—' 

'Impracticality need not be an impediment to one's appreciation,' Hannibal noted. 'Is a painting practical? Is a piece of music?' 

'Work songs,' said Will. 'Old spirituals, stuff to keep pace with. Rowing dirges. A lot of modern Western musical structure is from that kind of source.' 

'The repetition of verse and chorus to deliniate the passage of time,' said Hannibal. 

'Or when to swing the axe.' Will watched as Hannibal began plating what was in the pan (Will thought some of it might be potatoes, but they were purple), the dishes small and square, just two. 'Everybody used to sing. It was a big part of life.' 

'Why did they stop?' 

Will shrugged. 'Times change. Eventually other people's music was available to your average person, instead of just concert halls and _symphonic compositions_.' (Hannibal smiled a little, at that.) ' It becomes a hobby, or something you did as a kid, and then nothing. People stop singing and playing when they feel like they don't need to.' 

Hannibal took something out of the oven and set it on a rack to cool, two little white ramekins. 'Do you?' 

'Need to?' Will let a breath out. 'Yeah. It keeps me grounded.' 

'I feel much the same.' 

'What, going to the opera and the club?' 

'Playing.' Hannibal added a sprinkle of salt to their plates. 'The harpsichord.' 

'That's a lot fancier than I'm used to,' said Will. Anybody could find a piano at a garage sale or on Craigslist, but Will had never seen a harpsichord before. 

Hannibal dashed a few lines of sauce over each dish. 'That seems to be your refrain, in regard to our association.' 

Will pushed off from the counter, the weight of the watch warm against his wrist. 'Is that what we're calling it? Our association?' 

'We can call it whatever you like.' 

'You do this weird thing,' said Will, 'where one minute you're all opinions, and the next minute it's all about what I want. What I think.' 

'Would you prefer me to be wholly selfish?' 

God, no. But the idea of Hannibal saying and doing whatever he liked was definitely appealing. 'Might be a change of pace,' Will conceded. 

Hannibal's gaze seemed to pin him where he stood. 'Or would you prefer me to be vulgar?' 

Will swallowed. 'If you're going to be vulgar, dinner'll get cold.' 

Hannibal gave him a nod. 'After, then.' 

They sat together at the long dining room table, across from one another, no one at either end. Equals. 

'This is good,' said Will, obviously. 

' _Hachis de porc et pommes de terre_ ,' said Hannibal, 'though little resembling its typical form.' 

'Too lacking in presentation?' Will teased him. 'I speak some French, you know.' 

'Ah?' 

'Pretentious home fries.' 

'A little pretension is often what elevates something beyond the ordinary.' 

'Are you ordinary?' said Will, spearing a bit of meat with his fork. 'Beneath all this.' 

'A man stripped of finery is merely an animal,' said Hannibal. 'I was not always so fortunate as I am today.' 

Will hid a smile behind his wine glass, taking a sip before he spoke. 'I can't imagine you acting beastly.' 

'I am capable of it, of course.' 

'Alana says that you have a bad side.' 

Hannibal's brow lifted slightly. 'Did she? I'm flattered.' 

'Well,' Will corrected himself, 'she said we need to stay on your good side, because you have more than one.' 

'She knows me well. I am not quick to anger, but it is fierce.' 

Will remembered the King of Coins. 'And you always tell the truth.' 

'As best I know how, yes.' 

'That's sometimes worse than anger.' 

'And yet I am free.' Hannibal raised his glass a little. 'As are you, Will. Free to take the path you have chosen, whatever it may be.' 

* * * 

There were some sort of custard tarts for dessert, topped with shavings of chocolate so dark they looked black. When they had finished Will helped Hannibal wash the dishes; when they had all been dried, Will put his watch back on, checking the time. He was surprised to find it was only a little after seven o'clock. The winter night had drawn in early, as was its wont, distorting time and leaving Will feeling like he was perpetually late. 

'You really aren't going to wear that to perform tonight,' said Hannibal, without the tone of a question. As if it were settled. 

'Why not?' 

'You look terrible.' 

'Take it up with my tailor.' 

Hannibal drew closer, a hand at Will's waist under the edge of his jacket. 'I really must insist.' 

'Oh yeah?' Will gave him a steady look, even as he felt a flush of heat at Hannibal's touch. 'What are you going to do, cut it off me?' 

Hannibal pressed in close, breath against Will's neck over the collar of his shirt. Will felt Hannibal reach past him across the counter, slide a knife from the block. 'Yes.' 

Will's breath stuttered in his chest. 'You can't be serious.' But he wanted him to be. 

'It was a gift,' said Hannibal softly. Will could see the knife just past the edge of his vision, gleaming under the cool overhead lights. 'It has already been replaced.' 

'You didn't _give_ it to me,' said Will, biting his lower lip and releasing it as he felt the flat of the blade slide along the side of his thigh. 'Alana bought it.' 

'Not...' the tip of the knife, sharper than Will had assumed it even could be, snicked open the careful stitches he'd used to hold the tear in the pantleg together, 'precisely.' 

Hannibal seemed to remember where all the flaws had been, seemed to still see them, cutting them away first. Then, kneeling as he might have if Will were on the little steps before the mirrors, he slid the blade up each leg to the waistband, then severed the band itself. 

The wreckage of a once-beautiful piece of clothing fell to the floor around Will's ankles in a heap. Will had only worn his jock strap underneath, tonight, and Hannibal looked up at him. 

'You've bought a different model,' he said. 

Partly with the hundred-dollar tip. 'This one works.' 

Hannibal closed his eyes briefly, wet his lips, then got to his feet, knife still in hand. 'Another time. You have a performance, tonight.' 

Will was surprised, but nodded. He hadn't expected that Hannibal would want that, or that he'd have that look on his face when Will suggested it. 

'I want to touch you, this time,' said Will. 

'Patience.' Hannibal slid down the shoulders of Will's jacket, trapping his arms, then began to gently flick away each button of his shirt with the tip of the knife, from the hem upwards. 

'Do you ever get impatient?' Will wondered aloud, listening to buttons click and skitter musically against the kitchen floor. 'Does anything get your blood up?' 

'I'm not made of marble,' said Hannibal. 

'The depth of your self-discipline is kind of... oh, god.' Will tensed, not unpleasantly, as he felt the cool metal scrape gently against his chest for a moment before Hannibal continued his way up. 

'Kind of what?' 

'Annoying,' said Will, breathing hard. Hannibal seemed perfectly at ease, enjoying the torment. Will had been resisting the urge to press closer, because there was a goddamn _knife_ separating them, but something told Will that Hannibal wouldn't hurt him. Not unless Will asked. 

'I suppose I must do better,' said Hannibal, mock-solemnly, as he cut the last button away. Will's shirt hung open over his chest, and after what seemed like the barest moment of thought, Hannibal held the blade to Will's throat. 'Tell me when to stop.' 

Will's eyes closed against the spinning giddiness that surged up at the feeling of this, the inexorable strength of Hannibal's body against his, the knife warming a little to Will's skin, just a little more pressure and the world could end. 

'Better,' he whispered. 

Hannibal turned the knife, sliding it against Will's jugular softly, barely touching. 'And now?' 

' _Fuck_.' Will could feel his pulse pounding between his legs, imagining Hannibal's hands drenched in blood as slick as satin, _Will's_ blood. 'Much better.' 

Hannibal kissed him, pressed back against the edge of the counter, the knife still at his throat. Will moaned, the sound thrumming between his lips and Hannibal's. Will reached between them, his movement held back by the trap of his jacket sleeves, but the knife now safely—if this could be called safe by any stretch of the imagination—out of the way of his hands. He slid eager fingers down over the buttons of Hannibal's waistcoat, down over the front of his pants, feeling the press of heat that waited for him. 

' _God_ , Hannibal, I want to suck your cock.' Will felt the blade press just a little more, not enough to break skin but _deliciously_ close. 'Please,' he whispered. 

Hannibal's knife moved, and he watched as Will seemed to slump not in relief but disappointment. He turned Will around against the counter, cutting up the back of the jacket and shirt in one long, slow, dragging stroke. 

Will was trembling, cheeks flushed with arousal, neck and shoulders following after. 'Please, I want—I _need_ to, please Hannibal—' 

Hannibal stripped the tattered remains of Will's clothes away from him, letting them fall like they hadn't taken hours of design and the work of his own hands. 'You needn't beg,' Hannibal told him softly, letting Will turn back around. 

'What if I want to?' said Will. 

'Then I won't stop you,' said Hannibal. 

Will folded to the floor as gracefully as he could manage, discarded clothes bunched under him. Fingers too fast and tripping over each other, until Hannibal unfastened his trousers so Will didn't have to. Hannibal smelled good, the faint ghost of cologne enough to be pleasant but not to overwhelm the scent of his skin. Cedar, some other element Will couldn't place. Lavender? Bergamot? Didn't matter. 

'Have you thought about it?' said Will in a low voice. 'Me on my knees like this, begging to touch you? My lips stretched around you, taking as much as I can, squirming where I kneel because I can't get enough?' 

Hannibal swallowed, seeming to finally lose a fraction of his composure. 'Yes.' 

Will bit back a moan as Hannibal's cock was revealed, the thick curve of it, the furl of his foreskin slid back a little, showing a bead of moisture at the tip. Will had never wanted to taste something so badly in his life. 'God, you're gorgeous.' He felt the weight and shape of it in his hands, silken skin under his fingers, the ridge of a vein. Will leaned forward and ran the point of his tongue against the head, the clean, salty flavor of it filling his senses at once. 

Hannibal's fingers slid through Will's curls, no pressure, no urging Will forward. Accepting what he was given. 

Will sat back again for a moment, licking his lips, taking a few breaths. 'Not that I'm not invested,' he said, a little apologetically, 'but it's been a few years.' 

Hannibal cupped Will's jaw, thumb brushing against his cheekbone. 'Take your time. There's no rush.' 

'You know, I actually believe you when you say that?' 

'I'm only being honest,' Hannibal replied. 

Will lapped at the head of Hannibal's cock, kissed along the length and paused to nuzzle at the join of his hip, inhaling his scent. He didn't know if he could be sustained forever on this, not like Hannibal could, but the possibility of this being a regular thing in Will's life now felt pretty damn hopeful. 

At last he took Hannibal's cock between his lips, slowly inching forward and pulling back, little by little taking more. Will held what he couldn't fit into his mouth, stroking in a loose-fingered fist. 

Hannibal made a sound. 

It wasn't a moan, or a hiss, and it wasn't a curse. It was a sound as if he'd realized something that made sense, or been surprised by some beautiful sight. But when Will started in earnest to stroke him in time with the suction, Hannibal did moan, softly, one hand gripping Will's shoulder to steady himself. The sound zinged through Will's veins straight to his own cock, throbbing for attention. 

Will gave him a few more long, swirling licks and then moved back again to speak, still stroking him. 'You like that?' 

'Yes,' Hannibal said, looking down at him with dark eyes. 

'I've thought about this, too,' said Will, with a little smirk of mischief. 'Fucking myself with my fingers while I imagined how you would feel against the back of my throat.' 

'Will,' Hannibal sighed, hips pressing forward a little into Will's touch. 

'You want to find out?' 

' _Yes_.' 

Will drew Hannibal's cock back into his mouth, the stretch of his swollen lips making Will squirm still more, loving the feeling of it, opening up to take Hannibal in, to take all he could stand. He swallowed around him experimentally, found that his gag reflex hadn't decided to get in the way. Then Will went still. He could feel his heart pounding in his throat, knew Hannibal could feel it, too, by the sounds he made. Will held Hannibal there by his hips until Will needed to pull back and breathe, eyes watering. 

'Knife,' said Will, a little rasp to his words now. 

'Where would you like it?' said Hannibal, himself far from unaffected. 

'In my hand,' said Will. He held out his free hand to be given what he wanted. 'Haven't I been a good boy?' he added, enjoying the wickedness in his own voice. 

'Of course, Will.' 

Will weighed the knife in his hand just as he had Hannibal's cock minutes before, then looked up at Hannibal, taking a risk. Hoping. 

'I could kill you,' Will said softly, looking down again. If he didn't look Hannibal in the eye when he said it, Will could almost pretend he didn't mean it. 'One quick slice to your femoral artery. I know exactly how to do it.' 

'Will...' But Hannibal wasn't interrupting, pleasure drawing his name out like a length of velvet. 

'It'd take about five minutes, give or take,' Will went on. 'A little faster, if I did both. Nice and symmetrical.' Will pressed the flat of the knife against Hannibal's thigh, leaning close so Hannibal could feel Will's breath against the head of his cock. Will kept stroking him as he talked. 'Thick gouts of blood splashing against me, slippery and hot, running down the length of my body as I watch you slowly fading.' 

' _Fuck_ ,' Hannibal hissed through his teeth. 

Will held the knife against Hannibal's thigh, not quite touching now, and began to suck his cock again. 

'Wicked boy,' Hannibal whispered fiercely, in contrast to the gentle stroke of his hand against Will's hair. 'Do you know what you've done to me?' 

But Will didn't care, he liked Hannibal like this, his tight control stripped away to leave someone who trembled at Will's touch just as readily as Will arched and pleaded for his. 

He pulled back and handed the knife to Hannibal, handle first. 'Do whatever you want,' he said. 'Do what feels right.' 

As Will returned happily to his task, he felt the tip of the blade skim over his shoulder, a stinging cold line left in its wake. Though shallowly, it had finally cut him, bringing Will's blood to the surface. 

Will groaned deep in his chest at the feeling, redoubled his efforts as he felt a drop of blood accumulate to slide down his shoulderblade. 

' _Will_ ,' Hannibal said, as if he couldn't believe he'd been allowed. As if Will might change his mind any second. 

Will rocked back yet again, enjoying the little twinge in Hannibal's expression every time he broke tempo. He was stroking erratically, now, keeping Hannibal on his toes. 'That's it,' he told him. 'You want me to bleed for you, don't you, Hannibal? Be _honest_.' 

'Will, please—' Eyes squeezed shut, clutching Will's uninjured shoulder for stability. 

'You want to do more than that. Fold back the flesh, every hidden inch on display.' Will bit his lip, letting it slide free of his teeth slowly, temptingly. 'Feel the beat of my heart in your bare hands.' 

Hannibal came, spilling over Will's hand, breathing hard but it slowed, and soon he seemed to be able to pull himself together. He set the knife on the counter, out of the way. 

The first thing he said to Will was, 'I'm intrigued.' 

'Really?' Will teased him. He turned his hand to and fro under the light, examining the mess beaded over his fingers. 'Could've fooled me.' 

Hannibal looked fondly at him. 'Are you going to get up?' 

'In a minute. I'm enjoying the view.' A beat. 'You kind of destroyed my clothes. How am I going to walk out of here?' 

'I have another suit waiting.' 

Will wiped his hand off with what had once been a sleeve, tugged at random from the bunches of fabric under him. 'How do you find the _time_ for all this? Don't you do actual work?' Said the piano player. Will briefly imagined what his father would say to Will's ideas of what constituted _actual work_. It made him smirk. 

'My clients are few,' said Hannibal, rearranging his clothes and fastening them. 'It allows me a breadth of creative freedom I would not otherwise have.' 

'That you definitely didn't have as a therapist,' Will guessed. 

'I found ways, at the time. But yes.' 

Will got to his feet, his knees a little stiff. His thighs slipped against each other, slick from arousal that he'd almost entirely ignored. No, not ignored, passed over. Both in the sense of letting it go unaddressed, and exchanging his for Hannibal's. 'Well, since you undressed me, it's only fair that you dress me again.' 

'I would be happy to.' 

Hannibal cleaned the thin wound on Will's shoulders and dressed it with a light gauze, so as not to potentially stain his shirt. Will found that he enjoyed being fussed over when it was Hannibal, because it wasn't fussing, per se. But mostly because Hannibal was the reason for it needing to be done. 

'Will I see you at the club tonight?' said Will, knowing that was selfish. He'd had hours of Hannibal all to himself. 

'I must decline,' Hannibal told him. 'I have, though it may surprise you, actual work to do.' 

Will gave him a sarcastic look, but kissed him goodbye with as much tenderness as if there had never been a knife in their hands. 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'I'm scared,' said Will, in barely a whisper. 'I feel fucking stupid for being scared, but I am.'
> 
> 'Anyone would be frightened,' said Hannibal. 'How do you comfort yourself, Will?'

_Glow little glow-worm, glow and glimmer_

_Swim through the sea of night, little swimmer_

_Thou aeronautical boll weevil_

_Illuminate yon woods primeval_

_See how the shadows deepen, darken_

_You and your chick should get to sparkin'_

_I got a gal that I love so_

_Glow little glow-worm, glow!_

'Oh, are you leaving so soon?' said Abigail to one of the regulars who'd just closed out his tab. 

'Got to be up early,' he said. 'Best time to work in the garden.' 

'In this weather?' Abigail chuckled. 'All right, tough guy, but if you get frostbite, remember I told you so.' 

He shrugged. 'The work keeps me warm. Warm-ish.' 

'I'll get your coat,' said Abigail, ducking into the little cloakroom. She found the overcoat with the correct business card pinned to the lapel for identification: _Eldon Stammets, PharmD, RPh._

* * * 

The investigating officer slid the card back across the table to Margot. 

In an untidy, very cramped scrawl on the back, it read, _Margot! SO sorry if I've caused you to worry about me, because of course you would (your COMPASSIONATE nature!), but I decided to go on a bit of a jaunt to Australia. Took a little jet. Lovely this time of year, did you know it's summer right now? Gorgeous beaches. Do take care of yourself and your poorly arm!!! xxxxxx Mason_

'And that's definitely his handwriting?' 

Margot began reaching into her purse. 'I brought other samples to compare it to, if you need them.' 

'That won't be necessary. We'll find out when he left and let you know. I know if my brother up and left the country, I'd want some kind of timeline in my own head for what happened.' 

'I'd go ask, myself, but...' Margot sighed. 'I'm not allowed on the properties anymore.' 

The officer nodded. 'Thank you for your time and cooperation, Ms Verger.' 

'Any time. I'm just glad he's safe.' 

* * * 

Will stared at her. 'And that's it? No more questions, no indication that the case was ongoing?' 

They were having lunch together at the Sip  & Bite on Boston Street. Snow was accumulating on cars beyond the front window, but it wasn't yet sticking to the roads. 

'Nope,' said Margot, picking up two fries and dunking them in a little dish of ketchup. 

'Are these people not doing their jobs?' 

'I think you're overthinking it,' said Margot. 'I guess a little angel is watching over him.' 

Or the Devil, Will thought. 'I'm glad we know where he fucked off to, at least.' 

'Enough about my brother, let's talk about me. Do you think I should hot-glue rhinestones to my cast?' 

'That's a terrible idea,' said Will. 

'Okay, Mr Fashionable, what about those little resin charms off of Etsy?' 

'Wouldn't that make it hard to remove the cast?' 

Margot rolled her eyes. 'They saw it off.' 

'Sounds fun.' 

'Not with like a big cartoon lumberjack saw, it's sort of a spinning blade on a stick.' 

'That's even worse.' 

They continued their lunch without another word about Mason. 

Later, Will texted Hannibal. 

_i got your card_

_Did you like it?_

_yeah, thank you_

_seemed a little flimsy, though_

Hannibal took his time to respond to that. 

_When placed in the proper frame, it will last._

Will didn't know what to say to that, so he changed the subject. Sort of. 

_thanks for dinner the other night_

_I'm glad you enjoyed yourself,_ _pretension_ _and all._

Will hesitated for a moment before replying. 

_what was in that dish, again? pork?_

Hannibal's reply came a few minutes later. 

_A good guess._

* * * 

The weather worsened, drifts of snow plowed up onto the side of the narrow city roads. Will's new (well, new to him) truck had been complaining, the engine taking longer than usual to turn over, to warm up, and the steering was stiff. It wasn't too much of a surprise, therefore, when it wouldn't start on Saturday night after closing. Hannibal had said he'd stop by tonight, but he'd never shown up. Will was lamenting his luck with a string of curses when someone waved at him from the other end of the alley. 

'Need a ride?' 

Will remembered the guy's face, he'd seen him around the club for a few months, but Will hadn't bummed a ride from him before. 'Eldon, right?' 

'That's me.' 

'I live a long way out,' Will warned him. 

Eldon shrugged, hands in his coat pockets. 'So do I, man. C'mon, it's cold.' 

Will conceded his point, and got into the car, glasses fogging up from the heat. 'I'll pay for the gas,' he said. 

'Ehh, I'm not really fussed, to be honest. It's good to have the company.' 

Will couldn't smell alcohol on him, even in the enclosed space. 'I could've sworn I've seen you knocking it back with the best of 'em,' he said. 

'Oh, gosh, no. I mean, yeah,' Eldon corrected himself, 'but it's ginger ale. I just come for the music, and to feel connected with people.' 

They were stopped at an intersection, the inside of the car bathed in red light. Will was about to tell him they'd need to get on the highway, when he felt something sting the side of his neck, and soon wasn't able to tell him anything. 

* * * 

Time swam around him, full of eerie shapes. Light shifted and disappeared, then queasily surged into view again; there was a metallic thunk, and then darkness. Darkness and rumbling. 

There was an overwhelming smell of cold, damp soil, not the kind from out of a bag at a garden center, either. Thick and fragrant with undergrowth rot. Will's mouth felt cotton-dry, making it hard to speak, but he could feel warmth alongside him in the trunk that had nothing to do with the bed of dirt. 

'Who's that?' Will said, only loud enough to be heard over the road noise outside. 'You okay?' 

There was a faint groan and then, 'Will?' 

'Not what I expected when you said we'd meet up tonight,' Will said. 

Hannibal was quiet until Will thought he must have lapsed back into drugged sleep. Will strained to listen for his breath, but then Hannibal spoke. 

'Do you know this man?' he said. 

'He's a regular,' said Will, trying to turn over to face Hannibal. He wasn't bound, but god, he felt like his limbs were being weighed down by cinder blocks. It took considerable effort to move, and when Will had made some progress he felt like he might throw up. 'Pharmacist at a big-box store. Doesn't drink.' 

'Do you have your phone?' 

Will had to genuinely dig around until he found his pocket, which was empty. 'He took it.' 

'And mine. Any thoughts on where he might be taking us?' Hannibal only sounded a little tired, a little strained. There was no fear in his voice, and Will felt calmed by his presence. Or maybe that was just whatever Eldon Stammets had injected into his neck. 

'Not a clue,' said Will. 'Can you move? I feel like about ten sandbags tied together.' 

Hannibal shifted beside him. 'Not well,' he said. 'I feel a little foolish.' 

'You and me both,' Will muttered. 

'He asked about my suit,' Hannibal went on. 

'Pride cometh before the fall?' said Will, teasing him a little. Trying to lighten the dread that surely Hannibal felt, if not as much as he did. 

'Very amusing. Is there a release latch?' 

Will felt around for one, with agonizing slowness. 'No. Any way to push into the back seat?' 

'I checked earlier,' said Hannibal. 'Disappointing that there are still cars on the road without such basic safety measures.' 

Will slumped back, exhausted from talking and simple movements. It took a lot of breathing before he could say, 'Why are we covered in dirt?' 

'He spoke to me as the sedative took hold,' said Hannibal. 'I was still somewhat awake when he put me in. I tried to fight him off, but... to little effect.' 

'God.' Will could imagine how helpless he must've felt. 

'He's seen us together,' Hannibal was also struggling to take full breaths, 'at the Morgue. He said that he wanted to preserve our connection.' 

Will winced, but reached for Hannibal's hand in the dark and held on. 'How the hell would he do that?' 

Hannibal didn't have an answer. 

* * * 

They drifted in and out, each checking (when they could) that the other was still breathing. The smell of dirt filled Will's entire world, until he couldn't remember knowing anything else. 

It was a long drive. 

Will had faded out of consciousness for about an hour, but came to when a blast of cold air hit his face as the trunk opened. He couldn't see much, it being dark aside from the car's headlights in the opposite direction. 

'Don't worry,' said Stammets, his breath clouding the air, 'you're going to be all right. You know, normally I work with diabetics. I don't think what I dosed you with was precisely perfect, but I couldn't pass up the opportunity.' 

'Opportunity to do what?' said Hannibal, words running together a little as he and Will were lifted out of the trunk and laid side by side. Will felt cold, wet leaves under his hands, heard the distant crackle of branches groaning under the weight of snow. 

'Plant you,' said Stammets, as if it were the most natural idea in the world. 'God, the way you two _look_ at each other, the way you move when you're talking. It's like a dance.' 

Will stayed quiet where he was laid on the ground, making it seem like he'd dropped off again. They were in a forest, somewhere, but Will had no idea how long their captor had been driving. 

'I'd thought about a couple of others who work at the club,' Stammets went on. 'Chosen families are so much more vibrantly _entangled_ than families by blood. But when I saw you two, I couldn't resist.' 

Will heard shuffling and the thunk of Hannibal's shoes against something wooden, but couldn't turn his head. He was lifted, next, set down gently beside Hannibal in a shallow patch of earth framed with two-by-fours. Will's hand was lifted and placed in a sort of stirrup. The sting of a needle against the back of his hand. 

'How might you preserve our connection?' said Hannibal in a conversational tone. 

'Did you know that mushrooms communicate with each other? Massive neural networks, reaching out with their spores to touch and influence others.' 

Hannibal waited a beat and then said, 'I am not, however, a mushroom.' 

'But you can play host to them,' Stammets said. Will watched him place the IV drip in Hannibal's hand, as well, placing Hannibal's wrist in the same stirrup as Will's, so they could touch. 'Some varieties thrive in the cold. _Panellus serotinus_ was my choice for the two of you.' 

'Ah,' said Hannibal. 'Mukitake. Stubborn at first, but capable of unique tenderness with the appropriate care.' 

Will saw Stammets smile in the dark. 'I _knew_ you'd understand.' 

He lay soil and leaf litter over them like blankets, made certain the drip lines were secure, and then stood up, brushing dirt off his hands. 

'You're not the same kind of sedated as my usual selections,' Stammets explained. 'I really do prefer to use insulin. But the cold does wonderful things—you'll start to feel warm again, after awhile. Warm and sleepy and good. I'd usually strip you down,' he added, 'but it's cold enough that I don't have to. And I want you to be able to share your last waking moments together in peace.' 

'That's very kind,' said Hannibal. 

'Rest well,' said Stammets, turning to leave. 

'Goodnight,' said Hannibal. 'Thank you.' 

Stammets got into his car and departed. Long minutes passed as they waited until all sound but the whisper of the forest died away, Will holding onto Hannibal's hand where it sat propped against his. Then, at nearly the same moment, they both began to move, taking the IVs out, pushing the earth away with only a little difficulty. Will already felt stronger; whatever they'd been given wasn't enough, and he was used to being out on cold nights. 

'Jesus fucking Christ,' Will said under his breath, shoving dirt off of himself, lifting his legs free of the pressure of it, though it hardly helped. 'Did he think we'd just lie there?' 

'He seemed to believe we had accepted his gift,' said Hannibal, sitting up. His breath sounded a little halting, as if he were fighting nausea. 

'Any idea where we are?' said Will. 

'No.' 

'It must be nearly dawn,' said Hannibal. 

'How do you know?' 

'The quality of the air. It would be difficult to explain.' 

Will stared into the dark until the dark stared back, after-images churning beyond his vision. Evil spirits everywhere. 

'Can you walk?' said Hannibal, who had pulled himself to his feet. 

'Not sure.' 

Hannibal helped him up, and held him close to steady him. 

'I can't see a damn thing,' said Will. The overcast sky above seemed almost as dark as the woods, so far out from civilization that there wasn't enough light pollution to bounce back off the cloud cover and provide illumination. 

'Come,' said Hannibal. 'We shall find a tree and rest against it. When there is light, we can follow the tire tracks.' 

If snow hadn't covered them, by then. Will could feel the cold tap of snowflakes against his face and hair. 'All right.' 

'Do you have a lighter?' 

Will did, he realized. The mini Bic from out of Margot's glove box was still stuck inside the lining of his coat, and thus it hadn't been taken by Stammets with his other stuff. Will fished it out of the space between his coat's layers of fabric with some difficulty, and he flicked it with cold-numb fingers. A flash of Hannibal's face before the breeze huffed out the flame. 

'The ground's too wet for anything to catch,' said Will. 'Maybe we can find something dry after dawn.' 

'Perhaps.' 

They used the scant flame of the lighter to find a large tree to sit against. 

'Tell me how you are, Will,' said Hannibal, gathering him close. 

Will wove his arms around Hannibal under his overcoat and jacket, creating a pocket of heat between their bodies. 'Sluggish and thirsty. The kind of sick I get coming out from under general anesthesia.' 

'I feel the same,' said Hannibal. 

'Shouldn't eat snow for water,' Will pointed out. 'Makes it worse.' 

'I know.' A moment passed. 'Then we must wait for morning.' 

Will buried his face in the crook of Hannibal's neck, and Hannibal didn't flinch from the touch of his cold nose. 'I'm scared,' said Will, in barely a whisper. 'I feel fucking stupid for being scared, but I am.' 

'Anyone would be frightened,' said Hannibal. 'How do you comfort yourself, Will?' 

'I normally sing,' he said. The warmth between them had made Will painfully aware of how exhausted he was. He just wanted to curl up here forever. It was a bad idea, but he didn't care, and they didn't have much in the way of other choices. 'Mouth's too dry.' 

It took Will a moment to realize what the sound was, his head against Hannibal's chest. Hannibal was singing. 

_Eisva mudu abudu_

_Eisva mudu abudu_

_I žalia giruže abudu_

_I žalia giruže abudu_

It was a somewhat mournful tune, comforting in its repetition. 

_Kirsva mudu abudu_

_Kirsva mudu abudu_

_Žaliasias liepužes abudu_

_Žaliasias liepužes abudu_

It was a language Will had never heard, eerie and soft in the darkness. Will shifted a little to listen better, still tucked close to him. 

_Pjausva mudu abudu_

_Pjausva mudu abudu_

_Naujasias lentužes abudu_

_Naujasias lentužes abudu_

Hannibal stroked Will's hair, keeping it free of snow. He paused in the melody now and then to swallow, to take a few breaths, but each time Will thought he had finished, he hadn't. 

_Dirbsva mudu abudu_

_Dirbsva mudu abudu_

_Naujaja lovuže abudu_

_Naujaja lovuže abudu_

Will got comfortable against him, nestled between Hannibal's legs, leaning against his chest. Hannibal held him, one hand over his. 

_Klosva mudu abudu_

_Klosva mudu abudu_

_Naujaja paklode abudu_

_Naujaja paklode abudu_

If they didn't last the night, Will thought as sleep crept in, together was a good way to go. 

_Gulsva mudu abudu_

_Gulsva mudu abudu_

_I nauja lovuže abudu_

_I nauja lovuže abudu_

'What does it mean?' said Will muzzily. He couldn't keep his eyes open, and he couldn't see anyway. 

'I'll tell you in the morning,' said Hannibal. 

'Thank you,' said Will as he drifted off. 'It's beautiful.' 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you can listen to hannibal's song [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MdN8310EkxU).


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'You're safe,' Hannibal murmured against Will's neck.
> 
> 'She could be a serial killer,' Will joked weakly.
> 
> Hannibal made a considering noise. 'I would know.'

Will had woken to the sound of footsteps. He shifted against the tree, awareness unfolding in stages, and he realized Hannibal's overcoat was draped over him like a blanket. 

'Hannibal?' 

He came into view. 'Ah, you're awake. I've found us some breakfast.' 

'It's fucking twenty degrees and you're foraging,' said Will. It wasn't even a question. 

'Best to keep our strength up.' 

Several inches of snow had fallen in the night. Hannibal led Will back through a trail of footprints to a nearby stream he'd found, unsteady ice forming margins at the banks while the center still ran, clear and bright. Will drank icy water by handfuls until he felt a little more human again. They breakfasted on bright orange rose hips, chickweed and watercress, crisp with frost. 

'It's possible to eat cattails,' Hannibal noted. He still hadn't taken his coat back; it was surreal to see him like this, sitting cross-legged on a flat rock in his soil-blackened suit. Will was sure that not only the suit was ruined, but Hannibal's shoes as well. Odd thing to be concerned about when they could have died and still might, but it was more comfortable to focus on something trivial. 

'I'm not eating cattails,' said Will. 

'No, I thought not.' 

'Used to call them corndog grass when I was a kid,' said Will, plucking another rose hip from its stem. They were pulpy and sweet with a mild flavor, almost floral but falling just short. 'Some neighborhood girl dared me to eat one, and I wanted to impress her.' 

'How did that go?' 

'Awful.' Will laughed a little at the memory. 'Might be better if you cook them, I don't know. I took a bite of the corndog part.' 

'The stalk can be braised or boiled,' said Hannibal. 'It's sometimes called Cossack asparagus.' 

They ate in silence for awhile. Will got up for another drink of water, leaning out across the stream on a mossy jut of the bank, his arm dangling down into the numbing current. 

'It snowed,' said Will. 

'Yes.' 

'No tire tracks.' 

'But the garden stakes remain,' said Hannibal. 'We know at least his initial direction, in relation to them.' 

Will straightened up again, stiff and exhausted. He felt feverish, with a low, grinding pain behind his eyes. He kept seeing things move in his periphery, something that looked like a stag, but when he glanced over there was nothing. 'Probably best to follow the stream. It'll end up somewhere.' 

'Then so shall we.' 

* * * 

'Not that I'm ungrateful for a chance to tickle the ivories,' said Jimmy, 'but where the hell is Will?' 

The band was about halfway through warm up, and Will hadn't showed. 

Alana shook her head. 'I've been calling him.' 

'No luck?' 

'No luck.' Alana sighed, leaning her forehead against her hand. 'This is the guy who informs me forty-eight hours in advance when he thinks he might be getting the sniffles. Something's up.' 

'Could his Prince Charming have kidnapped him for some secret liaison?' Jimmy suggested, with a hint of eyebrows. 

'I've tried calling him, too, believe me.' Despite it seeming unlikely that Will would've gone along with it, that _had_ been Alana's first thought. 

* * * 

It was difficult to tell how long they'd been walking. They kept having to stop and rest, tired from the cold and the drugs still working out of their systems; the sky remained uniformly grey, the quality of light not changing in the slightest even though surely hours had passed. 

'What was that song?' said Will. They had just climbed a hill, and had stopped at the top. There was now a considerable drop-off down to the stream, so they had to wait to drink until they reached the other side of the hill. 

'A lullaby I learned as a child,' said Hannibal. 'I used to sing it to my sister.' 

'Younger?' 

Hannibal nodded. 'By nearly ten years. I gathered she was a surprise.' 

They got up again and started down the hill, steadying themselves on the slick leaves by hanging onto trees, and occasionally each other. 

'What does it mean?' said Will. 

'We two shall go together,' Hannibal recited, 'deep into the forest, you and I. We two shall fell together the green wood of linden trees.' 

Will listened as they walked. He'd hoped Hannibal might sing it again, but they were both a little out of breath. 

'We two shall cut straight and sturdy boards together, you and I. We shall build a new bed for our love.' Hannibal caught Will as he slipped a little. 'We shall spread soft sheets upon the bed, and we shall lie together, you and I, in the bed we have made.' 

'I like it,' said Will. 'Will you write it down for me when we get back?' If they got back. 

'Of course, Will.' 

They trudged on. 

* * * 

'Congratulations,' said Jimmy at the end of the night as he counted the tips in Will's stead, 'The night is over and we’re all still standing.' 

'And you didn't play "Toxic",' Katz noted. 

'Oh, don't think I didn't want to.' Jimmy turned to go, knowing they'd need help breaking down the bar for the night. 'But my abiding respect for our illustrious Bloomers stayed my hand.' 

'Or she would've stayed your hand for you.' 

'We'd have heard if it was something to do with the missing persons investigation, right?' said Abigail. 

'Margot said she got a postcard from _Brother of the Year_ ,' said Zeller. 'I think that's pretty well settled. Unfortunately.' 

'Maybe he's had car trouble again and his phone died,' Abigail suggested. 'There's some kind of engine thing with the new truck.' 

Jimmy recounted the stack of singles. 'Maybe he needs to stop buying used cars from Bobby Joe out on the stick farm.' 

'Do people actually get a phone call when they're arrested?' Katz wondered aloud. ' _Not_ that Will's been arrested. Is that just on TV?' 

'I didn't,' said Jimmy. 

'Oh my god, you old scamp!' said Katz. 'What did they pop you for, a D and D?' 

'Me, disorderly? _Please_.' He stuck Will's usual share of the tips into an envelope as a gesture, figuring that whatever had kept him might have accrued some sort of expense. 

'I notice you're not correcting the "drunk" part,' said Zeller. 

'I may have been the _tiniest_ bit snozzled at the time,' said Jimmy in a lofty voice, 'but I was behaving myself in every other respect.' 

'You still got popped,' said Katz. 'Come on, spill.' 

'No, no. A gentleman does not reveal his secrets.' 

'He got a blowjob behind a merchant booth at Pride,' said Abigail matter-of-factly. 

'What!' Zeller was all ears, now. 'First of all, how do you know that?' 

Abigail shrugged. 'I was there.' 

'Not like, one-on-one with the blowjob, right?' said Katz. 'Eye to eye, so to speak.' 

'I'd gone to get a necklace at this other stand and when I came back, boom, there was a show going on.' 

Zeller lifted his hands to the heavens. 'Tell me you took pictures.' 

'If you ever want to take a gander IRL, be my guest,' said Jimmy. 'We could recreate the moment for your scrapbook.' 

'I'd rather—' 

' _All_ right, Chatty Cathies,' said Alana, coming up to the bar across the dance floor. 'Here's the scoop on Will. His voicemail is full, no answer at his house. I'm going over there tonight to look after the dogs and make sure he isn't, I don't know, tangled in a fishing pole in the garage in some kind of slapstick tragedy. I'll let everyone know what's up on the group chat and we'll go from there.' 

'Have you heard from Hannibal?' said Abigail. 

'Same deal. Maybe Jimmy's onto something, maybe he hauled Will off on a romantic yacht getaway. Who knows.' 

'Man, _I_ want a romantic yacht getaway,' said Jimmy under his breath. 

'Yeah, well,' said Alana, 'whenever you do, have the decency to call out, first.' 

* * * 

Eventually they found the edge of the woods, and from there they found a road. It was mostly deserted, and they were a long way between signs, but after only about ten minutes of walking among increasingly thick snow, a semi pulled off onto the shoulder and the driver flagged them down. 

The driver was a short, plump woman who looked to be in her late fifties, with a buzz cut, glasses, and a Southern drawl. 

'Y'all look like you landed in Hell's spitoon!' she said when she cranked down the window to speak to them. 'You want a ride? I'm just heading back to the depot for my off week.' 

'Where are we?' said Will. 

'Outside Black River forest, New York,' she said. 'Come on round, I'll open the side.' 

Will and Hannibal climbed up into the cab of the truck, which was toasty and smelled a little like cigarettes. 'Thank you,' said Will. 

'Name's Sandy,' said the driver, handing them bottles of water. She was wearing shorts despite the weather, and there was a large tattoo of pink dogwood flowers on the side of her calf. 'And y'all are?' 

Hannibal introduced them, and said they needed to return to Baltimore. 

'Heck, that's not so bad. I'll get you there, don't you worry 'bout a thing.' 

'We won't be able to compensate you until we get home,' said Will. 'Our wallets and stuff were taken.' 

'I don't mind, I was gonna pass through there anyway.' She glanced over at them. 'Well-dressed fellas like you, all the way out here. You in some kind of trouble?' 

'We were purposefully stranded,' said Hannibal. 

'Well, shit! Did you boys trip and fall into an action movie, or what?' No suggestion of calling the cops. 

'More like psychological horror,' said Will. 

'Hmm,' said Sandy as she pulled back onto the road. 'Well, I don't reckon you have to tell me about it, unless you feel like. I mean, if you do wanna lay it out on the dash, that's fine, I got a degree in social work.' 

'I think I'd just like to sleep,' said Will. The warmth of the cab was starting to wick its way into his tired bones, and he could think of nothing better than just curling up against Hannibal and resting for as long as he was allowed. 

'That's fine, sugar, just hop on in the back, I got a memory foam and everything. Just, uh.' She gestured at the mud, snow and leaves still clinging to both their clothes. 'Maybe don't sleep in those. Top drawer'll get you t-shirts and boxers, if you fancy, though they'll probably be a trifle big.' 

'Thank you,' Will said again, maneuvering his way into the little room behind the seats, Hannibal following him. 

'Now, don't y'all worry,' said Sandy, 'I'll wake you to get food and a shower at the next big stop. Nobody gonna bother you otherwise.' 

'We appreciate the kindness,' said Hannibal. 

They pulled the curtain and stripped down, changing into borrowed things. Hannibal laid down on the little bed, pulling Will close. Up front, Sandy had switched on NPR, _This American Life_ issuing softly from the speakers. 

'You're safe,' Hannibal murmured against Will's neck. 

'She could be a serial killer,' Will joked weakly. 

Hannibal made a considering noise. 'I would know.' 

'I love you,' Will whispered, gripping his hand, probably too tight. 

Hannibal squeezed his hand gently in return. 'Will.' 

'I know it's too soon, I _know_ , trauma and adrenaline and—' 

'I feel the same.' 

Will stopped short. 'What?' 

But it felt right. It felt _honest._

They fell asleep together to the sound of miles rushing away beneath them. 

* * * 

Sandy Vicks was a sensible sort of woman. All women, in her opinion, were sensible enough to know smart from bone-stupid. 

Men, on the other hand, didn't have the sense Almighty God gave an oyster. 

The gang on the CB would probably think she'd gone crackers; not many folk she knew, even the old timers, would pick up a couple of guys who looked like they'd crawled out of the belly of damnation itself. But somebody's gotta do it, Sandy reasoned. Whatever you do unto the least of these, and so on. And she didn't mind the company one bit. 

Next opportunity she could, she pulled off at a Costco and went in for some clothes for them. It was cold as a mountain goat's tits, and they couldn't walk around in her underthings any more than they could in their mud-suits. The European-sounding one had a nice greatcoat, wool and everything, but it was filthy. Even something not quite up to that sort of style would be better than snow down your neck. 

Sandy guessed at sizes. She'd had a brother, once, and had helped him pick things out after their mama passed, so Sandy had a rough idea. Decent warm flannel shirts for the both of them (though not plaid), one in black and the other in maroon. Regular ol' work pants. Neither of them looked like the jeans type, based on what their suits must have been like before. Maybe they would've fared better in the wilderness if they'd had something sturdier. But no matter. Boots (she'd checked the sizes in their discarded shoes before she went in), socks, gloves, hats. Pack of underpants. A parka for each of them. 

Might as well stock up on some special food while she was there. Nobody hates croissants. Sandy got one of those big flat boxes of raspberries, too, and a mesh bag of little cheese wheels in red wax. Gotta lay out the best when you've got company. 

When she got back to the truck, they were still asleep, bless. 

If they tried anything foolish, she had a pretty good knife clipped to the sun visor, and bear mace. But they looked too tuckered out to try more than a swat that wouldn't dissuade a fruit fly. Something had happened to them, out there, and not just the cold and the damp. Something bad. She'd seen the bruise on the younger fella's neck, the marks on the back of their hands. Was this some kind of cult thing? Sandy had spent her own amount of time in hospitals in the past for this-and-that, and nobody should've done an IV like that. It was sloppy. Like whoever stuck them didn't care that it could hurt, later. 

* * * 

Will startled awake when someone shook him. 

'Whoa there, buddy, it's all right,' said Sandy. 'We're at a place with showers, is all.' 

Will rubbed some grit from his eyes, but only seemed to make it worse. 'Thanks.' 

He woke Hannibal and Sandy showed them inside, towels in her arms from a drawer under the bed in the truck cabin. They got more than a few stares. 

'Y'all need to call anybody?' Sandy asked. 'I got quarters for the phones.' 

'No, but thank you,' said Hannibal before Will could answer. Will didn't know what he would have said to anyone he wanted to call, anyway. _We got kidnapped and could have become mushroom fertilizer, and then could have died of exposure but we're fine now, sorry I missed work?_

'Now, it's not the season for buyin' your own sandals, but you'll want 'em,' Sandy told Hannibal. 'The Hilton this ain't. So you can use mine, take turns. All right?' 

Hannibal nodded and took the slip-on rubber sandals from her. 

'Might be a little small,' Sandy added as a word of warning. 'But still better than trench foot.' 

At the moment, Hannibal looked about as far from his usual self as Will could imagine, but his manners still held up. 'You've been exceedingly kind,' he said. 

Sandy waved it away. 'Just doin' the Lord's work.' She handed them both a crinkly blue bag with their new clothes in them. 'You go on, now. Get clean. It'll do the soul a world of good.' 

Hannibal let Will go first. Will stood under the hot water until his headache subsided a little, watching the water snake towards the drain, tinted grey from dirt, with bits of leaves and other detritus washing away with it. Sandy had given him a chunk of a bar of Irish Spring, and he used that even on his hair, scrubbing until it squeaked. There was still a little dirt under his nails by the time he was done, but he did feel a hell of a lot better. 

He got dressed enough to put on socks and boots, then handed off the shower sandals to Hannibal, who took them gratefully. 

'It's not so bad in there,' said Will. 'Bit mulchy now, though.' 

Hannibal gave him a tired smile. 'I can safely say that I would endure the Napoleonic Wars for the opportunity to scour myself free of that man's careless handling. This will hardly test my sanity.' 

Will thought about the concept of sanity as he finished getting dressed, finger-combing his hair in the smudged mirror. Was it sane of him to feel what he felt for Hannibal, even knowing that Hannibal willingly dismembered Mason Verger (who, factually, more than deserved it)? Even knowing that—Will hadn't thought too directly about this yet, stepping around it in his own mind, but the fact remained—Hannibal had cooked and eaten part of the body. That he'd fed some of it to Will in his fancy breakfast hash. 

Moreover, was Will sane in thinking he could be anything like a decent father to someone? For having adopted a traumatized girl when he'd hated being one, himself? Abigail, as it turned out, was just as capable of murder as her father by blood, if for less convoluted reasons. Will was reluctant to examine the feeling of pride he felt, at that. 

Everyone was capable of murder. Anyone with the capacity to understand that murder _exists_ was capable of it. 

Will had killed Garrett Jacob Hobbs. It hadn't been self-defense. One bullet to an extremity would have been self-defense. Nine to the chest was something different. 

Will had agreed to drop what he'd _thought_ was Mason Verger's body into the middle of two lakes, the expertly weighted and wrapped so that it wouldn't come bobbing to the surface any time soon. When Hannibal had told him Mason's body was in the kitchen, Will hadn't batted an eye. He'd asked what he could do. 

Will realized he'd been standing in front of the mirror for some time when he noticed it was steamed up, and Hannibal had emerged from the shower, one of Sandy's towels around his waist. 

'You look like yourself again,' said Will, though that wasn't precisely true. In all they'd been through, willing and unwilling, he'd never seen Hannibal this thoroughly undressed. 

Hannibal looked him up and down. 'So do you. Our host chose as well as she could have, given the circumstances.' 

Will glanced over at the bag, which now held his ruined clothes and shoes. 'I feel like this is becoming a trend. I put on a suit you made for me, something something murder, we throw it away.' 

'There is always one more,' Hannibal reminded him, and despite the steamy temperature of the room, Will felt goosebumps on the back of his neck at the memory Hannibal had drawn forth with those words. 

'What are we going to do?' Will found himself saying, more to the universe than to Hannibal. 

Hannibal was standing beside him at the counter, now, taking a disposable razor from Sandy's toiletries bag and then out of its plastic shell packaging. 'We will do what needs to be done.' 

'What if I don't know what that is?' 

'I do,' said Hannibal, applying shaving cream to his face and neck. Will watched him, reminded of how Hannibal had once said that dressing someone was more intimate than undressing. Watching Hannibal put together the mask he wore for others, even under such trying circumstances, made Will feel like he was being given a private show. 

'Well, good, that makes one of us.' Will sat down on the little bench to one side of the room, taking the tags off of the remaining clothes Sandy had bought them. 'The latent cop in me says we should contact somebody.' 

'Such as?' 

'The FBI would probably want to know that one of our regulars routinely buries diabetics to turn them into telepathic mushrooms,' Will pointed out. 'For a start.' 

'They would, indeed.' 

'You're not going to tell anyone,' said Will after a moment. It wasn't a question. 'You want to take him out, yourself.' 

Hannibal continued to shave. 


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Are we on the run from the law?' said Will.
> 
> 'Undoubtedly,' said Hannibal.

_**STAR-CROSSED KILLERS?** _

_Will Graham, 38—formerly Detective Willow Graham of the New Orleans Police Department—has recently come to this reporter's attention after an anonymous tip indicated that it was by his hand that the Minnesota Shrike was killed two years ago. The lead was followed with the assiduousness that has always been the standard and the pride of this publication, and it was found that the rumor might indeed hold water._

_Described in his own words as "just a piano player", Will Graham is a man who seems to contain an extraordinary amount of anger, despite the_ _**extensive**_ _therapy he has undergone. He was reluctant to communicate with this reporter, but that has never stopped us in our devotion to our readers before. A little digging revealed that he traveled to Bloomington,_ _Minnesota_ _,_ _to undergo gender reassignment surgery, and while_ _Graham_ _was there he_ _**somehow**_ _happened upon the Shrike in his own home, killing him with an unspeakably brutal_ _**nine shots**_ _to the chest. FBI agents who later arrived at the scene would claim that Graham was working for them as a consulting field agent, though it has since been discovered that Graham was not and has indeed never been in the employ of the FBI_ _, even on a probationary basis_ _._

_Our sources also indicated that Graham has become romantically entangled with one Dr Hannibal Lecter, former surgeon and psychiatrist, now_ _clothing designer_ _. Dr Lecter ceased to practice psychiatry after a grueling legal battle with a former patient, Bedelia Du Maurier,_ _**herself**_ _a former Doctor of Psychiatry. It seems that they had a twisted power dynamic that colored nearly all of their professional dealings: he was, at first,_ _**her**_ _patient, then she his, and they exchanged referrals like trading cards. One can hardly imagine, with such a complex and clearly unethical working partnership, what strange exchanges of power no doubt took place in their_ _**personal**_ _relationship. The subject taken before the court was that Du Maurier felt she had been manipulated by Lecter's grasping need for control, and that through his machinations she had lost her standing within the medical community, and that his influence had led to the untimely death of one of her patients, one Neal Frank, 40, of Annapolis,_ _Maryland_ _. Due to the bizarre nature of these accusations (particularly as Frank's death was determined to be by natural causes), and with little concrete evidence to back up Du Maurier's claims, the jury could not reach a verdict, and the case was thus ruled as a mistrial. Lecter ceased to take patients shortly after the_ _case_ _wrapped up, citing the desire to focus on philanthropic work and the arts. Du Maurier quit practicing for good, fled to Europe for seven years with her tail between her legs, and later returned to Maryland to become a lounge singer at none other than the notoriously death-cursed Beau Morgue,_ _**the nightclub that employs Will Graham.**_

_Dr Lecter, by all accounts, is the long-time friend of Jack and Bella Crawford, the owners of the Beau Morgue, and Alana Bloom, its manager—_ _**herself**_ _a colleague and prior student of Lecter's, and Will Graham's former therapist. The Beau Morgue strikes this reporter as a cesspool into which all failed mental health care practitioners and their patients are irresistibly drained. Upon entering an agreement to purchase the nightclub alongside Bloom, in preparation for the Crawfords' impending retirement, Lecter seems to have entered into a_ _**very**_ _different kind of agreement with Will Graham._

_But these are not the only skeletons in the Beau Morgue's closet. The club's charming hostess, Abigail Steinway, formerly—_

'I can't read this anymore,' said Jack, switching the tablet off and shoving it away. 

Alana looked at him gravely over the desk. 'That's the second time this harpy has sought to harm _our_ people, Jack. _Our_ house. We need to do something.' 

Jack scrubbed both hands down his face, sighing. 'You wouldn't happen to have any suggestions, would you?' 

'Restraining order,' said Alana. 'I'd cite psychological abuse. She's been in here more than once, hounding Will and Margot, and then she prints shit like this when they don't tell her what she wants to hear. And now she's announced to the world that Abigail's the Shrike's daughter.' 

'Can't get her for defamation,' said Jack, 'because technically none of this is slander. Lounds uses weasel words.' Jack did finger quotes in the air. ' _Seems. Appears. The rumor might hold water._ She's very careful.' 

'She _outed_ Will,' said Alana, one hand curling into a fist on the desktop. 'She's told people where he works, where he _used_ to work, people he cares about, that he "seems" to have acted like some kind of fucking state-hopping lone gunman terrorist, and Abigail's just settled in at school—' she made a noise of barely-contained fury in the back of her throat. 'This going to come back to bite us, hard. We can't even begin to know how much. People will be showing up here and starting shit, possibly even protesting in a very visible way. You remember the fundamentalists in 2004, Jack? You remember the big Molotov cocktail-shaped hole in the front window?' 

'Don't remind me,' said Jack. 

'It'll be worse,' Alana went on. 'It won't matter that the person Will "seems" to have killed was a goddamn serial murderer who turned eighteen-year-old girls into home decor and family dinners.' Alana's voice was tight. 'What will matter most to these... _these sorts of people_ is that Will is queer, Will is trans, Will is working in a place that allows him to be those things without fear of people making him go back to who he used to be, without fear of violence. And now she's brought violence right up to the _fucking footlights._ ' 

'I'll talk to somebody I know in the Department,' said Jack. 'See what the parameters are for charging Lounds with a hate crime, malicious intent, _something._ ' 

They both kept glancing at the phone, as if by looking they could make it ring. There had been no sign of Will since closing on Saturday night, and Hannibal had been equally elusive. Two days. They'd debated over filing a missing persons report, but Alana had vetoed that early on. Despite Jack's insistence that he knew a guy, that they could keep it straightforward and impersonal, Alana knew that sometimes it was best for Hannibal not to be found. 

Will wouldn't have left on purpose without setting up someone to look after the dogs. That's what they kept coming back around to. But she knew Will better than Jack ever had. If he was with Hannibal, it meant he'd be all right. 

For now. 

Alana had run out of steam for the moment, leaning over with her rolling chair scooted back, forehead against her folded arms on the edge of the desk. 'People felt safe here, Jack,' she said to the floor. 'People _were_ safe.' 

* * * 

Will and Hannibal stood on the side of the road just outside Scranton, Pennsylvania, glad for the truck blocking the wind. It was good to get out and stretch their legs, even though the reason for this turn of events was that something had started to make an alarming grinding noise under the hood. 

'Damn this thing,' said Sandy as she came back over to them. 'I swear it was fine.' 

'I'm cursed,' said Will. Something was moving out in the dark, and he tried not to keep looking over his shoulder at it. 'I kill trucks. Sorry.' 

'Nah, honey, it ain't you. Hold up a minute, I got a buddy on the 81 right now who's good with this shit, I'll just be a minute.' 

Hannibal turned to Will as Sandy climbed back into the truck to radio whomever it was. 'Quite the eventful weekend,' he said pleasantly. 

'Next time you want to have an exciting couple's adventure,' said Will, 'for god's sake, take me to Europe or something.' 

'Duly noted.' 

A beat. 'I didn't actually mean that.' 

'I did.' Hannibal stood behind him, pulling Will close, a shield between Will and the dark. 'Do you consider us a couple, Will?' 

That had come out wrong. It had come out so wrong it looped back around to being right. 

'Yeah,' said Will wryly. 'A couple of murderous hitchhikers.' 

Hannibal _tsk_ ed in disappointment. 'Painfully cliché.' 

'And yet.' 

They could hear Sandy's muffled drawl up in the truck cab. 

'Are we on the run from the law?' said Will. 

'Undoubtedly,' said Hannibal. 

'Doomed lovers on a crash course of destruction, going down in flames.' Will tipped his head back against Hannibal's shoulder. 'Romantic as fuck.' 

* * * 

Mason Verger's severed head was impaled on a boar spear, the stump of his neck stopping just above the crossbar. From his tongueless mouth poured strands of costume rubies, cheap plastic with sharp seams from manufacture. The floor around the spear writhed with snakes, who were perfectly happy to vacate the premises now that somebody had opened the bedroom door. 

'That's not good,' said the man who tended the grounds of the estate. He had seen an odd-looking shadow in the window the other night, but hadn't thought much of it until a few days later when he'd seen it again and called security in to have a look. 

'I know,' said Mason's personal assistant. 

'I mean,' said the head of security, 'it's not good, but at the same time... we've seen worse.' 

The groundskeeper now had a snake comfortably winding up one arm. He thought he might keep it, put it in a big tank. Feed it things. 'It's kind of pretty,' he said, of the grisly tableau. 

'It's so quiet in here,' said the security guard. 

'It's the best I've ever seen him,' said the PA, 'but don't repeat that to any reporters.' 

* * * 

Abigail Steinway was covered in plastic. 

She'd sewn it herself, in the back of Hannibal's shop, as he instructed her on how to work with the material without tearing it, how to use the serger, how to cover each hem of the vinyl with bias tape. 

Hannibal was gone. She didn't know where, but the fact remained that something had to be done, and done quickly. Abigail wouldn't let the circumstances of her life dictate her choice. And when Hannibal returned, he would be proud of her. Will, she suspected, would be too. 

She knew what to do. She'd practiced—Hannibal guided the first, and observed the second—on a pair of cards out of the reject pile. They'd broken them down together. Hooks, drain, disembowel. Joint, skin, portion, freeze. But Abigail had asked about the other ones, the ones before she'd begun to learn: the _important_ ones that Hannibal had elevated to art. He had drawn them for her, in beautifully vivid detail; she'd wanted to keep them, but Hannibal insisted that the drawings be burned. 

_It must live on in your mind,_ he told her. _Remember their names and faces, and what they did._

Freddie Lounds would be the third in Abigail's first sounder. 

* * * 

'We're closing,' said Jack. 

'We know!' Zeller called from behind the bar, where he was restocking bottles. 'We're hauling ass already!' 

'No,' said Jack, and the tone of his voice made even the bus boys stop what they were doing. 'I mean we're closing the Morgue.' 

_'What?'_ said Margot, the stack of tips in her hand forgotten. 

'I thought we were getting a snappily-dressed new co-boss,' said Katz. 'Did it fall through? He seemed nice. Big hit with Will, and _that_ takes chops.' 

'Do we need to kill a guy with a hammer?' said Jimmy. 'Because I'm surprisingly on board with that now.' 

Jack waited for them to finish protesting. Alana was sitting on the edge of the stage, and one of the band guys who hadn't left yet had sat down beside her to give her a side-hug and offer her the rest of his glass of gin, which she accepted and knocked back in one go. 

' _Temporarily_ ,' said Jack. 'For renovations.' 

Jimmy leaned on his hands against the bar, slumped in relief. 'Jesus Testicular Torsion _Christ_ , don't scare us like that!' 

'This Lounds woman has us backed against the wall,' said Jack. His eyes were narrowed, the set of his mouth resolute. 'So we're going to go quiet for a little while, for the safety of our people and our customers. She'll gloat, sure. Let her gloat. She'll think she's won.' He started to pace across the dance floor, looking decidedly ominous. 'Whatever her beef with Will is, let her think that we're scared, that we're keeping him safe from the ravening hordes of fuckwits she believes will rise to her challenge. When Will gets back—' a brief pause, no one knowing when that would be, 'we'll make sure he's got people looking out for him. And we'll keep the wolves from Abigail's door.' 

Katz was shaking her head. 'But—' 

' _Yes_ ,' Jack went on, 'we're going to shut our doors to the public for awhile, until this blows over. And then we're going to come back with a bang.' 

'What kind of bang?' said Zeller. 

'One so big it flash-burns Freddie Lounds' _fucking_ retinas,' said Alana, who was being poured another gin by the sympathetic trumpeter. 'Katz, what are we keeping upstairs right now?' 

'Uh, boxes? Not all stock, though,' she added. 'Everybody's got something up there. Who wants to pay for a storage unit in this town?' 

'And the third floor is still gutted from the last owner's era,' said Margot. 

'Not anymore,' said Jack. 'We're going multi-level. VIP lounge, party space, champagne room, the works.' 

'Champagne rooms are for strip clubs,' Zeller pointed out. 'The kind with poles. We're not a poles sort of dive.' 

'No,' said Jack, 'but we just signed the Pangender Offenders.' A local burlesque/boylesque troupe that had slowly formed after the one the Morgue used to work with disbanded. Everybody in the room had heard of them, and most had seen. 'About a third of them are perfectly happy to do one-on-one dance if the price is right. And it's _going_ to be right.' 

'Shit, Jack,' said Jimmy, pouring himself a glass of something. 'How are we going to _afford_ all of this? Aren't you planning to leave the country after the first of the year?' 

Alana held up a finger to hold that thought, and fished around in her top. She extracted a little fold of paper and held it up. 'Aunt Basie just wrote us a very, _very_ big check.' 

'So we're going to just brazenly "fuck you" our way through this?' said Margot. 

'I wouldn't have it any other way,' said Jack. 'Bella and I started this place because we wanted to keep the Dragos' dream alive. Well,' he conceded, 'Bella did, and I wanted to be a part of hers. This club is where people know they can be themselves. They've stuck with us for over twenty years, and more keep coming. It's time they were rewarded for that loyalty.' 

'And in return...?' said Zeller. 

'In return,' said Alana, 'we fight off the curse for one more year. We're the longest-running tenants where none of us have kicked the bucket. It would be a fucking shame if the club did, instead. Not on my watch.' 

'I feel like we should toast or something,' said Katz. 

'We'll toast when Will comes back to us,' said Jack. 'For now, we prepare.' 

'That was a goddamn beautiful piece of oratory,' said Jimmy. 'I'm all teary-eyed.' 

Jack looked around at them all. 'So, stiffs. What are we going to do?' 

'We'll do our best,' said Zeller. The others chimed in as he finished: 'And nobody we care about will die.' 


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will felt the choppy waves beneath their little boat as he rowed and rowed to the center of everything.

Sandy's more mechanically-minded buddy turned out to be a 24-year-old Canadian woman named Yvette. She got them back on the road in less than an hour, but not before having a conversation with Hannibal in such a heavy Quebecois accent that even Will couldn't tell whether she was speaking English or French. 

'I told you you ain't cursed,' said Sandy. 'We're about three and half hours out from Baltimore. You'll get home in time for breakfast.' 

'Thank you again for everything, Sandy.' Will was curled up on the passenger side in a blanket, chilled but also overheated. His headache had become a persistent saw against his senses, and over-the-counter painkillers weren't helping, not that they had ever helped much to begin with. Hannibal was in the back, sketching out a map of the forest from memory; Will was turned in his seat so he could watch him. 

'Honey, you _sure_ you don't want me to take you to a doctor?' Sandy asked Will. 'You look like an old sock, holes and all.' 

Will chuckled a little, at that. 'I just want to go home. See my dogs.' He dabbed sweat from his brow with a bandanna Sandy had given him. 'See my people.' 

'You take care of this one, hear?' Sandy called over her shoulder to Hannibal. 'He's a sweet baby angel.' 

Hannibal glanced up at Will with a fond smile. 'I'll take care of him whether he likes it or not, I'm afraid.' 

'Nothin' to be afraid of in that,' said Sandy, cracking her window slightly and lighting a cigarette. 'When you find a keeper, you keep him.' 

Will kept watching Hannibal. 'Have you ever found a keeper, Sandy?' 

'Mm-hmm.' She took a drag of her cigarette, tapping ash out of the window into the cold night. 'Her name's Sue, damn good physical therapist. We met after I got my knees replaced.' 

Will made a little affirmative noise for her to go on, happy to listen to someone else's story for awhile as he watched Hannibal work. 

'We danced around it at first. Like you do.' Will understood, but he didn't say. 'She has these scars, see, on her face. Burns. Made her feel like she wasn't pretty, so she acted like that was the truth.' 

'She was pretty to you,' said Will. 

'Like the light of day.' Sandy flicked the end of her cigarette out the window and rolled it up again. 

'When did you know you loved her?' said Will, shifting half-out of the blanket around his shoulders. 

'Oh, I knew when we met,' Sandy replied. 'Not a love-at-first-sight kinda thing, because we did a whole lot more talkin' than lookin'. It was more a feeling, y'know? You know what I mean.' Will did. 'That tug in your gut that says, _listen here, you better stay put. Keep ahold of this one, missy, or you'll be kicking yourself for the rest of your life._ ' 

'Only without the "missy" part,' Will agreed. 

Sandy shrugged. 'Your mileage may vary.' She looked over at Will, then laid the back of her hand against his forehead, glancing between him and the road in quick succession before taking her hand away again. ' _Sakes_ . You're burnin' up, stringbean.' 

'I'm fine,' said Will, who was drifting off. 

But he wasn't. 

* * * 

It had taken many hours to do it alone, but it was good. It was worth it. 

It was _honest_. 

Checkout-counter tabloid letters filled the eyes and mouth, cutouts decoupaged over the skin with many layers of Mod Podge. As the body decayed, the newsprint shell would crack, forced open as the vile rot wept from within. Wrists and ankles bound together behind the back, the weight of the corpse suspended by where they were joined; a painful curve to be held and held until it collapsed in on itself, vulnerable and powerless as she had made them, soft flesh bared to any attack by teeth or claws. The head, too, was at a strange angle, taut and anchoring the sculpture. Long red curls pulled pin-straight through the feed roller of a typewriter, each key capped with a tooth so that it smiled wide and false at the empty face above. 

It was all there: the theatricality, the presentation of the remains. The personal slant of the desecration. The removal of trophies. They would say it was the Ripper. 

No one yet knew he had an apprentice. 

* * * 

Time swam around him, full of eerie shapes. Light shifted and disappeared, then queasily surged into view again; there was a metallic thunk, and then darkness. Darkness and rumbling. 

Will felt the choppy waves beneath their little boat as he rowed and rowed to the center of everything. 

He felt Hannibal's hand in his, pulling him back. Heard the mournful lullaby from the woods. 

With great effort, Will struggled back to the shore. 

* * * 

'Hi,' said Will weakly. His mouth was dry, but not the way it had been after the trunk. More like he'd been in a room full of dry warmth, for some time. 

Hannibal squeezed his hand, his face more expressive than Will had ever seen it—relief, and something else. 'How are you feeling?' 

'Water,' said Will. 

'Ice,' said Hannibal, holding a cup of it to Will's lips. 'For now, at least.' 

It was small, crispy ice, like you'd get in a limeade at Sonic, and it was one of the best things Will had ever tasted. 

'You have encephalitis,' said Hannibal. 

Will held up a finger for Hannibal to wait while he finished melting a piece of ice around in his mouth. 'Since when?' 

'Your neurologist isn't certain. You're on medication now, and it's possible to recover.' 

'That's good,' said Will, getting another piece of ice and speaking around it. 'Where are we?' 

'Johns Hopkins,' said Hannibal. 

'Huh.' Will had never actually been inside, only ever seen it as a monolith of orange brick and multi-colored glass, its skyway giving a peek into the passing lives of others as he drove beneath. 'Looks smaller from this angle.' 

'I've spoken with your coworkers.' 

'Your employees,' Will corrected. He was starting to feel a little clearer, but his words still felt slightly clumsy. Maybe it was the ice. 

'Alana is hardly my employee, but yes. They've been to visit several times.' 

Will frowned down at his cup, as if it held the answer. 'Several times.' 

'It's nearly Christmas.' 

' _Jesus_.' 

'So they say,' Hannibal teased him. 

'What happened to Sandy?' Will was already starting to feel the drain that talking was having on him, like he was being dragged down by a tarp full of bricks. 'I don't remember saying goodbye.' 

'She stayed for the first few nights, along with me,' said Hannibal. 'Then, as she said, the road called her back. I gave her my card, and told her that if she ever needed anything, she should call.' 

'She was nice,' said Will sleepily. 

'Yes,' said Hannibal, taking the cup from Will as it drooped in his grip. 'I'll be here when you wake.' 

'Love you,' Will told him before he could forget. 

Hannibal kissed his forehead. _'Aš tave myliu,'_ he whispered. 

* * * 

A week passed. Will gradually improved. He started being able to have longer conversations. 

'I have a surprise,' said Alana. 

'I hate surprises,' said Will. 

'It's not so much a surprise as a change of context.' She stepped fully around the door, to show that she had Winston on a leash, with a bright yellow harness that said I'M WORKING. 'Certified therapy dog! Well, therapy dog novice. Still, his diploma looks more impressive than mine.' 

Winston stood with his paws on the edge of Will's bed. 'Hey, Winston.' Will scratched his ears. 'How goes the renovation?' 

'It goes,' said Alana. 'I'm still unaccustomed to not having Jack breathing down my neck about it, but we're making progress.' 

Bella and Jack had come round to see Will before they left, since he wasn't able to make it to their send-off party. He'd thanked Bella for the cards (Margot had brought them for Will to practice with, at his request), thanked them both for everything they'd done for him. He kept it together while they were there, but had felt an overwhelming sadness pull at the back of his throat when they had gone. 

Margot had been a regular guest, sometimes spending the whole day hanging around with Will, reading him magazine quizzes aloud and comparing their answers, competing with him at music trivia apps, and sometimes just sitting with him while both were lost in their respective thoughts. After this had been going on for awhile, she told him out of nowhere that her brother's head had been found skewered on a boar spear in his own bedroom, spewing dollar store princess party favors, surrounded by snakes. Freddie Lounds had been discovered, as well, and Margot actually showed him a picture of that one, which she'd taken with her phone. 

'Don't tell Uncle Jack I slept with one of his cop friends,' Margot told Will in a stage whisper. 'Apparently some of Baltimore's Finest get all loosey-goosey with evidence if you wiggle your finger the right way.' 

Will handed the phone back. 'I don't know if this would be called conducive to my recovery,' he said, even though he was glad to have seen it, in a weird way. 

'I'd say it's conducive to the recover of _society_ ,' said Margot. 'One less transphobic piece of shit.' 

'Pretty sure the trans agenda isn't "murder people",' said Will. 'I think you've got that flipped around somewhere.' 

'They _tell_ me was the Chesapeake Ripper,' Margot went on, with relish. 'I'd love to buy that man a drink, but apparently he's a slippery bastard and no one will ever, ever catch him. Have you been inside Quantico? It looks like a high school cafeteria.' 

Will chose that moment to change the subject. 'Is that Alana's jacket?' 

Margot turned her arm to and fro, admiring the stripes of the sleeve. She'd gotten her cast off, but was still in a brace. Will could see the sequins she's tack-stitched to it beneath the cuff of the jacket. 

'It might be,' she said. 'I did come from her place.' 

Will raised an eyebrow. 'So the come-fuck-me dance is over, then?' 

'Oh no,' Margot smirked wickedly. 'It's only just started.' 

Katz, Zeller, and Jimmy usually showed up in pairs or all at once, because it seemed they could barely last five minutes without one of their fellow bartenders to banter with, and they knew it cheered Will up. But one afternoon, by herself and opening the door handle with her elbow, Katz brought Will a toy piano. 

'It's been in my parents' garage since I was about nine,' she told him. 'It was either hide it, or put me up for adoption.' She set it beside the armchair where Hannibal often spent the night, these days. 'Now you can do your little Schroeder thing over here. I wouldn't want you to get rusty, we're set to reopen in July.' 

'That's a pretty long time,' said Will. 

'True, you'll wear this little guy out long before that. When you can go back home, chuck it out of the window and dedicate its death to my mom.' Katz sat down beside him. 'You holding up okay?' 

'Half of my brain was on fire.' 

'Well, yeah, that's kind of why I'm asking. Also the whole kidnapping thing.' A beat. 'They still haven't found the site?' 

Will shook his head. 'They combed the entirety of the Five Ponds Wilderness. Nothing.' Because they weren't looking in the right forest. 

'Damn.' Katz shuddered a little. 'I can't wait until they catch that guy.' 

But Will knew precisely where Eldon Stammets was, buried in a double plot near a stream. Hannibal had been out to check on the garden, and he and Abigail had made wild rice and mushroom soup, which the three of them ate together at the little table by Will's hospital room window. Hannibal had found Will's watch among Stammets' personal effects, and returned it; Will listened to the tiny motion of the hands as he fell asleep. 

One evening, Will sat by himself at the little toy piano. They'd taken the legs off of it and muffled it with a pillow, so it sounded even more plunky than it typically would have. _Like Beethoven,_ Abigail had said, and as Will played her a song she pointed at the next notes to play with one of the spindly, unscrewed legs. 

Will hadn't sung anything in ages, except in the shower, and even then it was only under his breath, so he wouldn't bother the patient on the other side of the wall. Now he picked out a tune with one hand and tested out his voice. No one to hear him if he sounded awful. 

_No one to talk with, all by myself_

_No one to walk with, I'm ha—_

Will strained for the note, but couldn't reach it. Hadn't been keeping the music box lubricated, it seemed. He soldiered on. 

_Ain't misbehavin'_

_Savin' my love for you_

Will changed the key a little before he went on. 

_I know for certain the one I love_

_I'm through with flirtin', it's you that I'm thinkin' of_

_Ain't misbehavin'_

_Savin' my love for you_

He noticed Hannibal in the doorway and trailed off. 'Hi.' 

'I'm glad to hear you sing again,' said Hannibal, coming to sit beside him. 

'I'm rusty,' said Will. 'I think they knocked something loose in there when they intubated me.' He leaned against Hannibal, and Hannibal put his arms around him. 

'I don't feel like I need to play, anymore.' Will swallowed, tipped his head back against Hannibal's shoulder. 'You're keeping me grounded.' 

'If you care for what I do, Will,' said Hannibal, 'don't silence yourself.' 

Then Hannibal reached for the piano keys and played: 

_A E D C D C_

_A E D C D C_

_C B C, C D, C C B A_

_C B C, C D, C C B A_

'Hey, it's your song,' said Will. 

'Ours,' said Hannibal, kissing the corner of Will's mouth. 'We shall play it together.' 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [here's the set list,](https://archiveofourown.org/comments/157819203) and [here's the link to the soundtrack again!](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6teoOd3fDJhqBHFYKd3SOo?si=bJB-N4ucR8-pVhQGoqSw7A) (enormous thanks to [Sanity_is_hard_to_keep](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sanity_is_hard_to_keep/pseuds/Sanity_is_hard_to_keep) for compiling the playlist!)


End file.
